“The Land of the Fine Triremes:” Naval Identity and Polis Imaginary in 5Th

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“The Land of the Fine Triremes:” Naval Identity

and Polis Imaginary in 5th Century Athens

C. Jacob Butera

Department of Classical Studies Duke University

Date:

Approved:

Sheila Dillon, Supervisor

Peter Euben

Joshua Sosin

William Johnson

Dissertation submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in the Department of Classical Studies in the Graduate School of Duke University

2010

ABSTRACT

“The Land of the Fine Triremes:” Naval Identity

and Polis Imaginary in 5th Century Athens

C. Jacob Butera

Department of Classical Studies Duke University

Date:

Approved:

Sheila Dillon, Supervisor

Peter Euben

Joshua Sosin

William Johnson

An abstract of a dissertation submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in the Department of Classical Studies in the Graduate School of Duke University

2010

This dissertation focuses on the artistic, archaeological, and literary representation and commemoration of the Classical Athenian navy. While the project stresses the various and often contradictory ways in which the Athenians perceived and represented their navy, its larger purpose is to argue that the integration of multiple and various media has the potential to change long-standing interpretations of ancient societies and cultures.

Relying on the literary evidence of the “Old-Oligarch” and Plato, scholars have traditionally held that the 5th-century Athenian navy and its rowers were viewed by their contemporaries as a “mob” and a locus for citizen “riff-raff.” Yet careful consideration of the vases, monuments, and buildings of 5th-century Athens, as well as the literary output of the period, demonstrate that the navy held a far more complex, and at times even positive, position in Athenian society.

iv Table of Contents

Abstract iv

List of Figures vii

1. Introduction 1

1.1 Methodology 5

1.2 The Problem 9

1.3 Review of Literature 15

1.4 Chapter Outline 18

2. Sailing the Wine-Dark Sea: Naval Imagery and Athenian Vase Painting from the Geometric to the Classical Period 22

2.1 Death and Display: Geometric Vase Painting and Naval Iconography 24

2.2 The Symposium at Sea: Naval Imagery and Athenian Black-Figure Vase Painting of the Archaic Period 29

2.3 The Vanishing Fleet: Ship Imagery and Red-Figure Vases of the Classical Period 34

3. “The Many Things Fit to be Seen:” The Navy and the Visual Landscape of 5th-century Athens 54

3.1 “The Aretê of These Men:” The Fleet and Rowers in Monuments of War 56

3.2 “The Beauty of Those Things Set Up for the People:” The Ship- Sheds, the Long Walls, and the Public Image of the 5th Century Athenian Navy 74

3.3 Poseidon and Athens: Sea, Sanctuary, and Ritual in Classical Athens 88

4. “Master of the Ship:” Naval Identity and 5th Century Athenian Literature 109

4.1 “Lain Low by the Ramming Ships:” Aeschylus’ Persians and Naval

v Imagery after Salamis 116

4.2 Prudence and Plundering: The Representation of the Navy in Aristophanes’ Knights 134

4.3 “Those Who are the Stronger:” Thucydides, the Melian Dialogue, and Naval Identity at the Close of the 5th-Century 149

5. Conclusion: “The Land of the Fine Triremes” 164

Appendix 172

Works Cited 209

Biography 240

vi List of Figures:

Figure. 1. Monumental Attic Geometric funerary amphora of the Dipylon group depicting a scene of prothesis, c. 750 BCE (Athens, National Archaeological Museum, NM 804) 172

Figure 2. Prothesis scene from a monumental Attic Geometric funerary amphora of the Dipylon group, c. 750 BCE (Athens, National Archaeological Museum, NM 804) 173

Figure 3. Fragment of an Attic Geometric krater depicting a scene of battle around a warship, c. 760-735 BCE (Paris, Musée du Louvre, A 527) 173

Figure 4. Attic Geometric krater depicting a scene of battle around a beached warship, c. 735-710 BCE (New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, 34.11.2) 174

Figure 5. Detail of an Attic Geometric krater depicting a scene of battle around a beached warship, c. 735-710 BCE (New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, 34.11.2) 174

Figure 6. Attic Geometric bowl portraying an oared vessel, perhaps in a scene of departure, c. 735-710 BCE (London, British Museum, XCII B 65) 175

Figure 7. Attic Geometric cup with the image of an oared ship, c. 850-800 BCE (Morrison and Williams 1968, Geom. 26) 175

Figure 8. Attic Geometric skyphos with a scene of battle around a beached warship, c. 850-800 BCE (Eleusis, Eleusis Archeological Museum, 741) 175

Figure 9. Fragments of two Attic Geometric votive plaques from the Acropolis, each preserving the prow of a ship, 8th-7th cent. BCE. (Boardman 1954, no. 1-2) 176

Figure 10. Fragment of an early proto-Attic vessel depicting a ship with at least to banks of oars, c. 700-650 BCE (Athens, National Archaeological Museum, NM fragment) 176

Figure 11. Early Attic black-figure hydria from Eretria with the image of a ship with a boar’s head ram on its shoulder, c. 600-550 BCE (Paris, Musée du Louvre, 735) 177

Figure 12. Fragment of an Attic Geometric vase highlighting each individual member of the crew, including the rowers and helmsman, c. 710-700 BCE (Athens, Agora Museum, 26817) 177

vii Figure 13. Fragment of an early proto-Attic plaque from Cape Sounion with carefully delineated hoplite crewmembers manning the oars, c. 700-650 BCE (Athens, National Archaeological Museum, NM fragment) 178

Figure 14. Attic black-figure cup depicting two ships with carefully rendered masts, riggings, and sails, c. 530-480 BCE (Paris, Musée du Louvre, F. 123) 178

Figure 15. Attic black-figure cup depicting two ships with carefully rendered masts, riggings, and sails, c. 530-480 BCE (Paris, Musée du Louvre, F. 123) 179

Figure 16. Attic black-figure dinos by Exekias highlighting the repetitiveness of the ships’ oars and the size of the vessels, c. 550-530 BCE (Rome, Villa Giulia Museum, 50599) 179

Figure 17. The Olympias trireme during its sea trials on the Aegean Sea 180

Figure 18. Attic black-figure band cup by the Tleson Painter with a miniaturistic depiction of a cockfight, c. 550-520 BCE (Munich, Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptotek, SL462) 180

Figure 19. Attic black-figure band cup with a miniaturastic depiction of numerous warriors perhaps in a scene of preparation or departure, c. 550-520 BCE (Dallas, Dallas Museum of Art, 1986.2) 181

Figure 20. Interior rim of an Attic black-figure dinos depicting a series of oared ships, c. 550-530 BCE (Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum, 3619) 181

Figure 21. Attic black-figure kylix depicting a merchant ship and a warship, c. 510 BCE (London, British Museum, B. 436) 182

Figure 22. Fragment of an Attic black-figure krater preserving a portion of a ship’s prow, oarsmen, sails, and rigging, c. 530-480 BCE (Copenhagen, National Museum, fragment) 182

Figure 23. Red-figure cup by the painter of London E2 with a series of ships around its rim, c. 490 BCE (London, British Museum, E22) 183

Figure 24. Attic black-figure dinos with a series of ships around its inner rim, c. 520-510 BCE (Malibu, J. Paul Getty Museum, 92.AE.88) 183

Figure 25. Votive plaque from the Temple of Apollo Zoster in Vouliagmene with a rough etching of a ship, c. 550-500 BCE (Basch, 1987, fig. 476) 184

Figure 26. Bilingual amphora with a red-figure scene by the Andokides, highlighting the complicated depiction of overlapping tree branches in the background,

viii c. 525-510 BCE (Boston, Museum of Fine Arts, 99.538) 184

Figure 27. Hydria by Phintias highlighting the artist’s ability to render delicate lyre strings in the red-figure technique, c. 525-510 BCE (Munich, Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptotek, 2421) 185

Figure 28. Stamnos by the Siren Painter, highlighting the artist’s ability to render ship’s rigging in the red-figure technique, c. 520-480 BCE (London, British Museum, E. 440) 185

Figure 29. Attic red-figure volute krater portraying the death of Talos; representation of the Argo is relegated to the side of the central panel, below one of the handles (fig. 30), c. 480-400 BCE (Ruvo, Museo Jatta, 1501) 186

Figure 30. Representation of the Argo from beneath the handle of an Attic red- figure volute krater depicting the death of Talos (fig. 27), c. 480-400 BCE (Ruvo, Museo Jatta, 1501) 187

Figure 31. Attic red-figure kalyx krater portraying Dionysos’ discovery of Ariadne; representation of Theseus’ ship is depicted to the side of the central panel, above one of the handles, c. 450-400 BCE (Syracuse, National Archaeological Museum, 17427) 187

Figure 32. Attic red-figure cup by the Briseis Painter representing Theseus’ journey to the underwater realm of Poseidon, c. 480 BCE (New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, 53.11.4) 188

Figure 33. Attic red-figure column krater by the Harrow painter depicting Theseus’ meeting with his father, Poseidon, c. 480-460 BCE (Cambridge, Sackler Museum, 1960.339) 188

Figure 34. Attic red-figure lekythos by a follower of the Providence Painter representing the winged figure of Boreas, the north wind, c. 470-450 BCE (New Haven, Yale University Art Gallery, 1913.148) 189

Figure 35. Attic red-figure hydria with Boreas’ pursuit of the Athenian princess Oreithyia; Athena watches the scene from the right, c. 460-450 BCE (Basel, Antikenmuseum, BS 1906.296) 189

Figure 36. Attic red-figure hydria depicting Boreas’ capture of Oreithyia; the scene from the right, c. 460-450 BCE (Brunswick, Bowdoin College, 08.3) 190

Figure 37. Map of the island of Salamis, with the promontory of Kynosoura (Κυνόσουρα) projecting eastward into the Saronic Gulf and toward the mainland 191

ix Figure 38. Cuttings on the Kynosoura peninsula that have been identified as the leveling course for the trophy erected to commemorate the battle at Salamis (Wallace 1969, fig. 8) 191

Figure 39. Cut limestone block associated with the trophy erected on the Kynosoura peninsula in commemoration of the battle at Salamis (Wallace 1969, fig. 10) 192

Figure 40. Cut limestone block associated with the trophy erected on the Kynosoura peninsula in commemoration of the battle at Salamis (Wallace 1969, fig. 11) 192

Figure 41. The reconstructed, Ionic trophy monument at Marathon (photograph taken by the author) 193

Figure 42. View of the island of Salamis from the Philopappos, with Piraeus in the foreground (photograph taken by the author) 194

Figure 43. Fragment of an inscribed monument base commemorating the Persian Wars (Athens, Agora Museum, I 303b, formerly Athens, Epigraphic Museum, EM 6739) 194

Figure 44. Fragment of an inscribed monument base commemorating the Persian Wars (Athens, Agora Museum, I 303a) 195

Figure 45. Proposed reconstruction of the base of the Persian War monument illustrating the relative positions of Agora 303a and 303b (after Raubitschek). The remnants of a small cutting are preserved atop fragment 303b (Raubitschek 1940, fig. 3) 195

Figure 46. Drawing of a nearly complete block of the Persian War monument preserving the full width of the stone as well as the cuttings for numerous stelai (Matthaiou.1988, fig. 1) 196

Figure 47. Proposed reconstruction of the Persian War monument with the inclusion of a complete block (after Matthaiou). The preserved block indicates that the base was designed to receive multiple stelai (Matthaiou 1988, fig. 2) 196

Figure 48. Plan of the ship-sheds at Piraeus (Morrison, Coates, and Rankov 2000, fig. 9) 197

Figure 49. The Hephaisteion (as seen from the Acropolis), highlighting the buildings size and considerable visibility (photograph taken by the author) 197

x Figure 50. Lykavettos, the Philopappos, and the Acropolis (as seen from Mounichia Harbor), highlighting the clear line of sight between the harbor and the city center (photograph taken by Martin Wells at the author’s request) 198

Figure 51. The Plan Ia Long Walls with the northern wall connecting the city center to Piraeus and the southern, “Phaleric Wall,” leading to the harbor at Phaleron (Conwell 2008, fig. 2) 198

Figure 52. Plan of the Ib Long Walls after the addition of a third wall, which ran parallel to the northern wall and identified Piraeus as the predominant military and commercial harbor at Athens (Conwell 2008, fig. 3) 199

Figure 53. Reconstructed plan of the late 4th century Long Walls highlighting the use of mud-brick walls atop a stone foundation (Conwell 2008, fig.4) 199

Figure 54. View of the Attic Plain, over which the northern Long Walls would have run (as seen from the Philopappos); the hill of Piraeus is visible in the distance (photograph taken by the author) 200

Figure 55. The Acropolis, which still dominates the Athenian skyline; the Parthenon, the centerpiece of the Periklean building program, is clearly visible atop the outcropping (photograph by the author) 200

Figure 56. The southern corner of the east pediment of the Parthenon as drawn by the 17th century Flemish artist Jacques Carrey (Palagia 1993, fig. 1) 201

Figure 57. The northern corner of the east pediment of the Parthenon as drawn by the 17th century Flemish artist Jacques Carrey (Palagia 1993, fig. 2) 201

Figure 58. The southern corner of the west pediment of the Parthenon as drawn by the 17th century Flemish artist Jacques Carrey (Palagia 1993, fig. 4) 201

Figure 59. The northern corner of the west pediment of the Parthenon as drawn by the 17th century Flemish artist Jacques Carrey (Palagia 1993, fig. 3) 202

Figure 60. The Venetian bombardment of the Parthenon (September 26, 1687) as drawn by G. M. Verneda in 1707 (Hurwit 1999) 202

Figure 61. The central figures of Poseidon and Athena from the west pediment of the Parthenon as drawn by the 17th century Flemish artist Jacques Carrey (Palagia 1993, fig. 3) 203

Figure 62. Attic hydria depicting the contest between Poseidon and Athena, c. 400 BCE (St. Petersburg, State Hermitage Museum, 6a) 204

xi Figure 63. Attic hydria depicting the contest between Poseidon and Athena, c. 400 BCE (Pella, Pella Museum, 80.514) 205

Figure 64. Detail of an Attic hydria depicting the contest between Poseidon and Athena, c. 400 BCE (Pella, Pella Museum, 80.514) 206

Figure 65. Plan of the Acropolis, including the Propylaia (32) and the Parthenon (13). The “first good view of the Parthenon” (B) is located to its west, near the Chalkotheke (6), affording the visitor an unobstructed view of the west pediment (Hurwit 2005, fig. 3) 207

Figure 66. Reconstruction of the “first good view of the Parthenon” (fig. 65, B) as one enters from the Propylaia. The visitor is presented with an unobstructed view of the west pediment, featuring the contest between Poseidon and Athena (Travlos 1971, fig. 565) 207

Figure 67. Plan of the sanctuaries and temples in the vicinity of the Ilissos River. The sanctuary of Boreas (195) is believed to have been located just south of the Olympeion on the banks of the Ilissos (Travlos 1971, fig. 379) 208

Figure 68. Plan of the civic center of Athens indicating the conjectured position of the Theseion (N) in the southeast corner of the Agora (Travlos 1971, fig. 379) 208

xii Acknowledgements:

I wish to thank the chair of my committee, Sheila Dillon, the members of my committee, both past and present, and the countless other scholars and colleagues, who have read and commented on this project. I would also like to acknowledge the financial support of Duke University and the Department of Classical Studies, as well as the

American School of Classical Studies at Athens, which facilitated permit requests and travel that were indispensible for this project. Finally, I would like to thank my family, my friends, and above all Hallie, for their years of patience, support, and love.

xiii Chapter 1: Introduction:

The history of Classical studies has long been characterized by a division between the study of literature (philology/historiography) and material culture (archaeology and art history), which has created an “uneasy relationship between things and words, objects and texts, visible evidence and events.”1 The study of Athenian soldiers2 has been subjected to this same dichotomy, with a noticeable prejudice toward the written and literary evidence.3 Objects and monuments, therefore, have been largely used as illustrations for things outside of the objects or monuments themselves. This tendency has led to a long history of scholarship that emphasizes the militarism of the Athenian army, with material evidence viewed only as a reflection of reality, valuable primarily for documenting changes and developments in military tactics, strategy, and equipment;4

1 Bassi 2005, 26. 2 Throughout this dissertation, I use the term “soldier” to describe an individual who took part in military service (whether as a sailor, horseman, or hoplite) during a period in which state involvement in military organization was particularly pronounced. For the purpose of this project, then, soldier is used primarily to describe military men of the late Archaic and Classical periods. The term “warrior” is reserved for “fighting men of the ages celebrated in epic and romance…for whom the designation soldier would be inappropriate” (Oxford English Dictionary). For this reason, fighting men depicted in the Geometric vases of the 8th century are described as warriors, while those on Archaic and Classical vessels are described as soldiers. While I understand that the term “soldier,” by its very derivation from the Latin solidus, implies some sort of pay for service, for the sake of this dissertation, I use the term as a reference to those men, who fought in an organized and regimented polis military. 3 Porter 2003, 65. Porter sees a similar trend in the study of Classical antiquity as a whole and suggests that there is an unspoken hierarchy that ranks the study of text above the study of material. “Archaeology,” he argues, “has traditionally been the poor relation of philology, the crowned jewel of classical studies, playing the part of a decorative ‘extension of the formalized literary past’ [quoting Morris 1994, 24].” 4 For example, see the intermittent use of artistic evidence in the series of essays edited by Victor David Hanson (1991), in Hoplites: The Classical Greek Battle Experience. See also Anthony Snodgrass’ (1967) discussion of the development of weaponry in ancient Greece, which relies heavily on artistic and archaeological evidence for various panoplies in order to outline the development of ancient military technology. François Lissarrague (1990, 234) notices similar shortcomings in the works of Helbig and Jongkees-Vos, who attempt to align trends in visual representation with historical accounts. The relative chronologies of the artistic and archaeological evidence, however, do not allow such easy alignment, which has led to contradictory interpretations of the same evidence. 1 however, such a treatment of material remains, be it artistic, archaeological, or otherwise, ignores the important social, political, and cultural impact of these objects, and so presents a skewed image not only of the material evidence, but of the Athenian soldier as well.5 The scholarly impression of the Athenian navy6 has been particularly affected by the primacy granted written sources. Relying on the literary evidence of authors such as the “Old-Oligarch” and Plato, scholars have traditionally held that the 5th-century

Athenian navy and its rowers were viewed by their contemporaries as a “mob” and a locus for citizen “riff-raff.”7 Yet careful consideration of the vases, monuments, and buildings of 5th-century Athens, alongside the literary output of the period, demonstrates that the navy held a far more complex, and at times even positive, position in Athenian society.

The aim of this dissertation is to provide a more complete picture of the representation and commemoration of the Athenian navy in the variety of sources in which it appears, including not only literature, but also art and material culture. This project will focus primarily on the 5th century, though an overview of Geometric and black-figure vases from the Archaic period will also be examined. While the starting point for this study is broadly delineated by Archaic vase painting, its close is defined by the erection of the portrait statues of Konon and Evagoras, the king of Cyprus, in the

5 On the need for a more complete and comprehensive examination of both the literary and material evidence, see Hanson 1999, 384-5. 6 Throughout the dissertation, I use the term “naval” and “maritime” interchangeably, particularly when referring to naval organization of the Archaic period, when little distinction was drawn between the use of ships in military service and their function in the trade and transportation of the Aegean. As illustrated by Herodotus (8.17), the distinction between private and military vessels remained unclear even after the establishment of the Athenian fleet. Likewise, the substantial number of ships, both military and otherwise, required for expeditions such as that undertaken by the Athenians against Sicily in 415 attest to the continued use of merchant vessels for military campaigns. 7 Neer 2002, 162-3; Hanson 1996, 306-7. 2 Athenian Agora for their victory at the battle of Knidos.8 These monuments, while not naval, represent a meaningful shift in Athenian military commemoration, as they are the first portrait statues of living individuals to be dedicated in the Agora. The erection of the statues of Konon and Evagoras in the civic center of Athens, then, marks the beginning of a radical new standard in the commemoration of the Athenian military during the 4th century, and so serves as a notable stopping point for this study.9

These dates, while determined by material objects, encompass a number of critical moments within Athenian history that both shaped the identity of the citizen- soldier and are shaped by them. This period sees the Kleisthenic reforms in 508/7, the eventual establishment of radical democracy under Ephialtes and Perikles, and the rise and fall of the Thirty Tyrants in 404/3; in addition to such political revolutions, it is during this period that the Athenians see victory in the Persian Wars, the establishment of their “empire,” and its eventual fall at the hands of the Peloponnesians. This dissertation will examine the representation and commemoration of the Athenian navy over the course of this period and in the midst of such significant social and political changes.

These events are well attested in the literary tradition, most notably through the histories of Herodotus and Thucydides. In addition to such histories, these influential events in

Athenian history are reflected in the various comedies and tragedies of the 5th century, such as the Persians of Aeschylus, as well as the Knights by Aristophanes. This project will closely examine the contemporary literary evidence produced between c.530 and

394, without emphasis on later sources, such as the 4th century writings of Aristotle,

8 Dem. Lept. 20.69-70; Isoc. 9.56-57 (Evagoras). 9 Dillon 2006, 101-2; Shear 2007, 91-2. See also Lycurgus 1.51, who emphasizes the significance and uniqueness of this trend in Athens. 3 Demosthenes, and Hyperides. In doing so, this dissertation will avoid the tendency on the part of scholars to draw conclusions about the Athenian fleet through the lens of 4th century texts. This common scholarly practice is problematic, since it projects the attitudes, priorities, and agendas of later sources back onto the 5th century, while it ignores a largely under-exploited body of fifth-century evidence, namely representations in art and material culture.10

The primacy of literary texts has led to studies of the Athenian navy that do not make full use of the copious material evidence through which soldiers were represented and commemorated. In addition to important epigraphical evidence, such as a number of casualty lists11 and epigrams,12 this dissertation will give equal weight to those important architectural and artistic references to the Athenian soldier and to the principle literary testimonia of the period. Various state monuments commemorated the achievements of the Athenian fleet, most notably the trophy set up after the battle at Salamis, and numerous monumental building programs, such as the construction of the ship-sheds and the Long Walls, transformed the very physicality of the city’s form and served as a testament to the city’s naval identity. In addition to such state sponsored monuments, depictions of the fleet appear in the private arts as well, seen in scenes of naval battle,

10 Ian Morris (2000, 159), in his discussion of the creation of generic personas of Archaic poets, highlights this problem and stresses that a reader must be aware that “we are dealing here with a long-term invention of tradition, as Hellenistic Greeks appropriated old stories for their own ends.” Such an awareness will, according to Morris, invariably “influence how we interpret texts.” Anthony Snodgrass (1987, 40) is perhaps more forward in his assessment. He argues that scholars must recognize that literary texts are not necessarily factual and can be subject to their own external influences. For a similar idea in the Roman period, see Hansen’s (1991, 15) remarks on Plutarch and its utility for discussions of 4th century Athenian democracy. 11 See Bradeen 1964 and Clairmont 1983. 12 For example the inscription now in the Agora Museum, which commemorated the Athenian effort during the Persian War (Meiggs and Lewis 1988, no. 26). 4 ships at sea, and mythological references to the city’s maritime interests. It is not the argument of this dissertation that such material evidence serves only to verify what is recorded in the literary texts, for, as Thucydides makes clear in his comparison of the cities of Athens and Sparta,13 visible remains can serve as much to falsify the past as to verify it.14 Rather, this project will examine the literary and material representations of the Athenian navy as separate and equal components that need not necessarily be coherent, and that may in fact be contradictory.15 In this way, this dissertation is intended to present a more complete, even if multi-faceted, complex, and conflicting, picture of how Athenian soldiers—here, those in the Athenian navy—were represented and commemorated within and through the various social, political, and cultural institutions of the polis.

Part 1.1: Methodology

That a noticeable divide has arisen between the literary and material evidence that constitutes ‘Classical studies’ in its broader sense is the fruition of what Friedrich

Nietzsche called, even in his own time, the “un-modern” and unchanging character of the classics.16 Nietzsche laments what he views as the overly schematized, conventionalized, and regimented study of antiquity, a study that has led to an unwavering and traditional

13 Thuc. 1.10.1-3. 14 Bassi 2005, 19. 15 Porter 2003, 66. 16 Nietzsche 1963b, 15 no. 4. This sentiment has since been echoed by David Small (1998a, 217), who notes that the “long-established avenues of investigation” within Classical studies has not led to new paradigms for the study of antiquity. Ian Morris (2000, 39) and Anthony Snodgrass (1987, 2) have also shared in this acknowledgment of the resistance to change within the field of Classical studies. 5 hierarchical pursuit of objectivity with little room for “freedom” and novelty.17

Nietzsche rails against the classicist “who has been castrated by objectivity, who is as much a cultural philistine as anybody else, and who dabbles in pure scientific research,” concluding that such a man “is obviously a sorry spectacle.”18 While certainly overstated, Nietzsche’s criticism is simply a more extreme example of what Stephen

Nimis less scathingly recognizes as “the enigma of a professional mandate [within classics] to produce interesting scholarship in a disinterested manner.”19 To Nimis, as to

Nietzsche, this is symptomatic of the field’s hesitance to reflect upon itself critically as well as its failure to recognize “that meaning is produced, not found, that disciplines do not simply focus on a certain object, but constitute that object as such, and that coherence of theory produces not certainty, but mise-en-abîme.”20

Such tacit acceptance of institutionally constituted meaning has resulted in an artificial construction of which objects from antiquity are deemed “important,”21 a relative and subjective term that has led not only to the pronounced segregation of the literary record from material culture, but also to its elevation above archaeological and art historical evidence in the long-established hierarchical organization of Classical studies.22

17 Nietzsche 1963b, 24 no. 40. 18 Nietzsche 1963b, 24 no. 38. 19 Nimis 1984, 111. 20 Nimis 1984, 111, Nietzsche (1963a, 7 no. 11) again states this more bluntly, “When classicists discuss their discipline, they don’t get down to the root of the matter: they don’t adduce classical scholarship itself as a problem. Bad conscience? Or simple inadvertence?” 21 Ascription of this term to texts and objects from antiquity reflects a purely a modern determination that may have little or no relation to the reception of these same objects by those who produced and viewed them in antiquity. For a discussion of the implications of such assumptions of importance, see Snodgrass 1987, 36-41. See also, Clarke 1978, 13-15. 22 See, for example, Euben et al (1994, 6-7, 9), who note that late 19th and early 20th century professionalism led to a partitioned field, which emphasized a narrow philological focus. They suggest that 6 This hierarchy is most apparent in the traditional assessment of Classical archaeology’s place as the “handmaid of history.”23 While this particular label is more or less obsolete, its inherent spirit lives on in the presumed necessity to link an evident archaeological event to a documented historical moment, as though material remains required written legitimization in order to establish their importance or significance to scholars. This equation of the material record to the literary, however, occurs without careful assessment of the fact that any assertion by an ancient writer “may be in some degree an abstraction or interpretation of events, rather than a plain factual statement.”24 That the affirmation of the written ancient source, whether contemporary or not, is often sought for the vindication of “important” events indicated by the archaeological record of the

Classical period is a reflection of the primacy given to text, as opposed to object.

Furthermore, such an approach assumes that material and text exist as disjointed discourses to be studied independently of one another and that they require uniquely divergent skills to be understood.

This divorce of text from material, however, must be recognized as a contemporary limitation, the end result of the conventionalization of the field to which

this hierarchical emphasis on philology has actually led to the fields diminishing place in the intellectual mainstream over the last century and call for more awareness of this problem. 23 Dunbabin 1957, 14. A similar idea has been expressed by Klejn (2001, 18), who, in a display of equally poignant imagery, illustrates his perception of archaeology as subordinate to history, arguing “Let us render what is Caesar’s to the Caesar of archaeology and what is God’s to the God of history.” 24 Snodgrass 1987, 40. William Arrowsmith, in his commentary on Nietzsche (Nietzsche 1963b, 9 n. 3) notes that this is “nothing more than the (barely suppressed) premise that philological method and knowledge of the original languages are always and in every case the decisive criteria.” He continues, “Such criteria may be decisive for philological work as such, but the unreflective readiness with which philologists extend them to areas where they do not apply illuminates some of the past and present difficulties of the profession.” See also Chartier (1988, 43), who contends, “It is clear from the outset that not text, even the most apparently documentary, even the most ‘objective’…maintains a transparent relationship with the reality it apprehends.” 7 Nietzsche was so opposed.25 As Ian Morris argues, “there is no reason other than the defense of academic boundaries for us to lump together all material culture, regardless of context of use, as one discourse and to separate all verbal culture as another.”26 As

Morris makes clear, unquestioning validation of this academic division between material culture and text is not only artificial, but also untenable; furthermore, acceptance of these separate discourses engenders the scholarly avowal that study of one requires a specific, expert, and exclusive set of skills that render knowledge of the other unattainable, unapproachable, or (most distressingly) unimportant. While some specialization is to be expected, and indeed encouraged, such an “either-or” mentality irreparably hinders our understanding of antiquity.27 It must be recognized that both material evidence and written sources provide only selective insight to history, and neither can be treated in isolation. Both text and object, then, contribute to a fuller understanding of the ancient world, and the two need to be approached not as disassociated or unrelated elements, but rather as congruent and complementary constituents of ancient society to be treated in a similar and equal manner.28

The need to integrate these discourses into a more unified approach has slowly begun to enter into discussions of Classical antiquity, but as David Small notes, this integration “has been limited, and far too small.”29 Only within the last forty years have

25 Nietzsche 1963a, 10 no. 3. See also Sauer (2004, 22), who argues that such a line of separation between text and material “is an artefact of our own making.” 26 Morris 2000, 27. For a discussion of the fallacy of such disciplinary separation, see Giddens (1984, 357- 8) discussion of social science (i.e. archaeology) and history. 27 For an example of the dangers of over specialization and its impact on our understanding of antiquity, see Wells 1984, 47-48. 28 Sauer 2004, 33-7. 29 Small 1995, 1. 8 serious advancements been made toward the unification of philological and archaeological studies.30 While this dissertation does not claim to solve this problem, it does hope to illustrate how consideration of both the literary and material evidence can complicate and problematize long-standing scholarly suppositions. In the case of the navy, reliance on literary sources has led to the common conclusion that the navy and, particularly, the men who manned the oars were disparaged or ignored by the 5th-century

Athenian community. Such a conclusion, however, relies almost exclusively on written sources, many of which were written over a century after the establishment of the

Athenian navy under Themistokles. Examination of contemporary, 5th-century literary sources, as well as the copious material and archaeological evidence related to the navy, however, paints a remarkably different, and considerably less monolithic picture of the fleet and its rowers. While the navy may never have supplanted the hoplite as the normative symbol of Athenian cultural identity, the fleet was far from universally disparaged or ignored by Athenian society; rather, the material and literary evidence of the 5th century portrays a navy which held a frequently positive, if uneasy, position in

Athenian social, political, and military self-identity.

Part 1.2: The Problem

Few passages have so shaped our perception of the role of the navy in Athenian society as Aristotle’s schematic model for constitutional development, in which he asserts

30 See, for example, Snodgrass 1991, 62-5; Bintliff 1991, 4-5; Small 1998a, 217-8; Small 1998b, 242-3; Sauer 2004, 3-2, 21-32, 40; Moreland 2001, 13-5; Woolf 2002, 52; Morris 1998, 230-8; 2000, 6-18; Binford 1972, 1-9; Andrén 1998, 180. That the debate has continued well into the last decade illustrates the continued struggle to relate and synthesize the various types of material surviving from antiquity. 9 that “the light-armed force and the navy are altogether democratic” (Pol. 6.1321a14-

15).31 This seeming correlation between naval power and democratic ideology is an echo of another well-known passage from earlier in the Classical period, namely the conservative criticism of the so-called “Old-Oligarch,” who rather begrudgingly accepts the inevitability of a democratic constitution due to the role of the lower classes in manning the fleet. He concedes that, in such a place as Athens, the common people should have more than the elite, “since it is the common people who row the ships and who bestow power upon the city,” and for this reason, “it seems that it is right for all to be amongst the leaders by means of lot and vote, and that it is possible for each of the citizens, who so wishes, to speak” ([Ath. pol.] 1.2).32 Writing late in the 5th century, the

“Old-Oligarch” is reflecting upon his contemporary Athens, in which these “commoner” rowers (nautai) could be identified as a “naval mob” (ναυτικὸς ὄχλος) capable of affecting political organization.33 While texts of this nature from the late 5th and 4th centuries tend to present the Athenian rowers in a somewhat negative light, the recognition of the political capabilities of the nautai, whether positive or not, has been made apparent. That these two concepts, the fleet and democracy, were perceived of as complementary in antiquity has led to the contemporary assertion that one could not have existed without the other. For example, it has been suggested that without the

31 … ή δὲ ψιλὴ δύναµις καὶ ναυτικὴ δηµοτικὴ πάµπαν (Pol. 6.1321a14-15). This assertion is the culmination of Aristotle’s model of constitutional development (Pol. 6.1321a5-16), in which he links the four kinds of military divisions (cavalry, hoplites, light-armed troops, and the navy) to various oligarchic and democratic constitutions. For further examples of Aristotle’s evolutionary model for poleis constitutions and its link to military organization, see Pol. 3.1279a30-b5, 4.1289b34-41, and 4.1297b16-28. 32 …ὅτι ὁ δῆµος ἐστιν ὁ ἐλαύνων τὰς ναῦς καὶ ὁ τὴν δύναµιν περιτιθεὶς τῇ πόλει…,ἐπειδὴ οὖν ταῦτα οὕτως ἔχει, δοκεῖ δίκαιον εἶναι πᾶσι τῶν ἀρχῶν µετεῖναι ἔν τε τῷ κλήρῳ καὶ ἐν τῇ χειροτονίᾳ, καὶ λέγειν ἐξεῖναι τῷ βουλοµένῳ τῶν πολιτῶν ([Ath. pol.] 1.2). 33 Thuc. 8.72.2. 10 opportunity to serve in the trireme, the lower class Athenians, who manned the ships,

“might have lacked the confidence, the knowledge of what common effort could achieve, and most of all, the valorization of liberty…to participate in politics.”34

While few would argue for such an intimate relationship between political confidence and naval participation, a considerable debate has arisen concerning the possible connection between the rise of naval power and democracy in Athens during the late 6th and early 5th centuries. Such a connection is complicated by the existence of non- democratic naval powers, such as Corinth, Aegina, Samos, and even Persia, in the

Archaic and Classical periods.35 Nevertheless, Athens is viewed as unique and it has been commonly argued that its naval power and democratic organization are interdependent and inseparable.36 This conclusion has been largely influenced by the passage in Aristotle’s Politics mentioned above, which suggests that a polis with a powerful navy is best suited for the development of democracy. Central to this discussion is the question of whether the democracy was a prerequisite for effective naval power, or whether the fleet engendered radical democratic thinking. The first of these theories, proposed by Josiah Ober, suggests that the Kleisthenic reforms and the establishment of democracy in 508/7 bolstered the role of the lowest class citizens, the thetes, to the point where they could be entrusted with military power. If this were the case, it is argued, the thetes could, for the first time, have been deployed safely for the

34 Strauss 1996, 317. 35 Thuc. 1.13-14; see Momigliano (1960, 67), who recognizes that sea-power could be compatible with more than one political form and argues that “the association of sea-power with democracy had been an exceptional feature of Athens.” Momigliano argues that, at least until the formation of the modern national state, sea-power was, as a whole, more commonly associated with oligarchies than democracies. 36 Raaflaub 1999, 144-5. 11 sake of the polis, effectively creating the base necessary for manning a formidable fleet.

The opposing theory, presented by Kurt Raaflaub, questions the proposed impact of the

Kleisthenic reforms and suggests that the battle of Salamis in 480 and the essential integration of the thetes into the military for the naval defense of Attica caused a

“massive and lasting change in their economic or social status and/or communal function.” This change, it has been argued, was the stimulus for the political empowerment of the thetes and so led to the establishment of the radical democracy in

462 under Ephialtes.37

Both of these theories are equally credible, yet they rely almost exclusively on literary texts written after the 460’s, when both the democracy and the naval empire had been firmly established. Reliance on such non-contemporary sources presents serious difficulties, as the manner in which the navy and the democracy were both perceived and represented was far from unchanging in the 150 years between Kleisthenes’ reforms and the writings of Aristotle. As Peter Euben has convincingly shown, the role of the navy, and especially the impact of Salamis, came to be conceived of in increasingly politically autonomous terms over the course of the 5th century.38 Euben traces the perception of

Salamis in the generations following the naval victory and notes that this event empowered Athenian citizens to think more theoretically and politically, eventually

37 For the debate between these two views, see the exchange of essays between Kurt Raaflaub (1998a, 1998b) and Josiah Ober (1998) collected in Morris and Raaflaub 1998. For the quotation, see Raaflaub 1998a, 45. 38 Euben 1986, 372. See also Paola Ceccarelli (1993, 467-468), who argues that an ideological shift had occurred by the middle of the 4th century, which led to the equation of Athenian naval hegemony with political association and partisan ideology. She does not doubt that some connection existed between democracy and naval power, but she questions whether this relationship need necessarily be one of cause and effect, and she further notes, as Euben, that the perceived nature of this relationship may have changed considerably by the 4th century. 12 leading to the Platonic criticism of the very intellectual tradition that Athenian naval power engendered and of which Plato was a product. The writings of late 5th and early

4th century writers such as Plato, Thucydides, and Aristotle, then, presented the Athenian navy during a period of heightened political theorizing that may have conceived of and represented the fleet in decidedly different terms than individuals living in the early years of the democracy.39 For this reason, the projection of these ideas back onto the late 6th and early 5th centuries does not provide an entirely reliable picture of the role of the navy in the social, political, and cultural organization of the early democracy.40 In addition to the problematic use of later constructs to explain earlier institutions, these theories also seek to identify a single catalyst for the development of Athenian democracy and the increased naval power of the polis that is couched in a unified and pervasive cultural theory. The application of such a strict and singular cause and effect relationship, however, over-simplifies the undoubtedly multi-faceted and complicated societal influences that contributed to the institution of democracy in Athens as well as the participation of its residents in the establishment of its naval supremacy.

That these theories have suggested such a one-to-one relationship between the democracy and the navy is in part the result of their almost exclusive reliance on (later) literary evidence at the expense of the artistic and material records, which are often only

39 Ceccarelli 1993, 467-70. 40 Euben 1986, 376. Of particular importance is Euben’s recognition that how the world is conceived of and interpreted can change over time and so can re-shape the very nature of an event and its perception. As he interestingly notes, “if what men think about the world can change what the world is or might be, then how one interprets an event helps constitute what that event is.” 13 given a cursory consideration.41 The manner in which the Athenian sailor was represented in antiquity, then, has only been partially explored and our understanding of such representations remain largely skewed by the primacy given to literary accounts.

For this reason, this dissertation intends to focus on the material as well as literary references to the Athenian navy as autonomous, separate, and equal discourses within the ancient polis. It aims not only to address the traditionally limited treatment of the considerable range of ancient material still preserved, but also the scholarly presupposition that the role, judgment, and impact of the navy in Classical Athens was invariable and immutable. Such assumptions ignore the complex, and often contradictory, perceptions and presentations of Athenian soldiers within specific contexts, over extended periods of time, and through distinct media. Because such considerations have remained largely unexplored, this dissertation will examine both the literary and material representations of the Athenian navy within the time period that they were produced. In such a way, this dissertation will present a more complete picture of how the fleet and the men who manned it were represented and commemorated through the various social, political, and cultural institutions of the polis during the late Archaic and Classical periods. While the literary and material records surviving from the roughly

140 years with which this dissertation is concerned provided separate, complicated, and often conflicting perceptions of the status and impact of the Athenian fleet and its crews, a broader and more multi-faceted approach to this important group will provide a more

41 See for example Strauss (1996, 321-2), who should be commended for addressing the non-literary material, but who treats the evidence almost as an afterthought. His conclusions about the artistic evidence are indeed intriguing, but beg further study. 14 complete understanding of the navy and its position in the ideology and organization of the polis.

Part 1.3: Review of Literature:

The Athenian navy has been the subject of considerable attention over the past century, though scholarly work has focused primarily on the historical and strategic significance of the city’s fleet, rather than its representation, commemoration, and impact on social identity. Most recently, John Hale (2009) has recounted the “story” of the fleet, tracing its importance in Athens from the moment of its inception through the end of the

Classical period. While this work presents an overview of the impact of the navy in

Athenian society, it does not engage directly with many of the intricacies and problems that surround the navy. This is certainly understandable, as the book was written for scholars and enthusiasts alike, and so presents a narrative overview rather than an in- depth analysis. Similarly, Strauss’s (2004) popular recounting of the battle of Salamis examines the formation of the fleet in a narrative format for casual readers and scholars alike. These books represent the latest in a long tradition of engaging historical works that recount the formation, organization, and function of the Athenian navy. Amit’s

(1965) Athens and the Sea and Casson’s (1971) Ships and Seamanship in the Ancient

World present early scholarly treatments of the Athenian navy, focusing on its formation and organization, rather than its broader social position and impact.

Numerous scholars have written in-depth historical treatments of individual aspects of naval organization, which the more introductory works of Amit and Casson

15 address only briefly. Gabrielsen’s (1994) Financing the Athenian Fleet, for example, analyzes the financial mechanisms required for the organization, outfitting, and functioning of the fleet during the Classical Period. Herman Wallinga (1993) has focused his attention on the nature of the Athenian navy before the Persian Wars and the city’s construction of its formidable trireme armada. Other works have attempted to analyze and recreate the form and capability of the warships themselves. Most notable among these works is Morrison and Williams’ (1968) Greek Oared Ships 900-322 B.C. These two scholars carefully catalogue and analyze representations of ships in Geometric,

Archaic, Classical, and Hellenistic art. While their collection of ship imagery is commendable, they do not analyze this material in an attempt to understand the position of seafaring in Greek identity, but use it to reconstruct ancient naval technology and engineering. The culmination of their work was the construction of the Olympias trireme in the late 1980’s – a project whose progress was recorded in numerous scholarly works, including Morrison, Coates, and Rankov’s (2000), The Athenian Trireme: The History and Reconstruction of an Ancient Greek Warship.

As for the archaeological evidence pertaining to the navy and naval imagery, the ship-sheds at the military harbors of Zea, Mounichia, and Kantharos received the attention of excavators such as Dragatsis and Dörpfeld as early as 1885. These explorations of the ancient Piraeus became the foundation for a number of more exhaustive topographical treatments of Athens’ ancient harbor. The works of Garland

(1987) and Eickstedt (1991), in particular, examine the development and use of Piraeus in antiquity and provide useful overviews of the archaeological remains that have come to light in the area. Recently, though, even these studies have become outdated, as the work

16 of Bjørn Lovén (2007) and the Danish Institute continues to uncover remains of ship- sheds and fortifications at the city’s military harbors. A recent study by David Conwell

(2009) recounts the construction and history of the city’s Long Walls, concentrating on the physical form and functionality of this system of fortifications. As such, the possible implications of such monumental works on the city’s visual landscape and the construction of civic identity, issues discussed in depth here, are outside of his aims and discussion.

While much scholarly treatment of the Athenian navy has emphasized the history, strategy, and function of the city’s fleet, considerable attention has also been placed on the navy’s possible connection to the city’s democratic organization. At the center of this treatment of the navy is the lively debate between Josiah Ober (1996, 1998) and Kurt

Raaflaub (1996, 1998a, 1998b). Both scholars see a direct link between the mass involvement of the citizenry as oarsmen and the development of democratic organization and identity, though they disagree on whether democracy engenders naval power, or mass participation as rowers furthers democracy. Regardless of their differences, however, the important idea that the navy held a definitive role in communal self-identity has emerged from this debate. This idea has been furthered by Barry Strauss (1996), who views naval involvement as a means for citizens not only to actively engage in the politics of their society, but also to define their role within that society. Strauss, for example, argues that thetes, as the common masses, were granted a voice and identity through their naval participation. While scholars such as Hanson (1996) and Neer (2002) suggest that the oarsmen were largely ignored or disdained by the Classical community, the work of

Strauss, Raaflaub, and Ober has shown that naval involvement had broader implications

17 for the community than simply military effectiveness. While the direct connection between democratic and naval development has been reasonably questioned by Ceccarelli

(1993), that naval participation could affect civic and cultural identity remains a crucial contribution of such politically organized discussion and should not be discarded without careful consideration.

While this long tradition of scholarly interest in the Athenian navy provides a detailed treatment of the historical and military importance of the city’s fleet and oarsmen, few of these studies examine the means by which and manner in which the navy was represented and commemorated over the Classical period. With the exception of

Neer (2002) and Shapiro (1992), few scholars have treated the artistic representation of the navy as more than a means through which naval technology might be better understood. Likewise, the literary presentation of the fleet has largely been utilized to recreate a timeline or story of Athenian naval development, rather than as a means through which questions of Athenian self-identity and imaginary can be better understood

(with the notable exception of the work of Pritchard 1998, 1999). And finally, no study that I am aware of looks at monuments such as the ship-sheds and Long Walls as more than merely functional, military constructions, despite their tremendous symbolic impact.

It is within this framework that the current study is situated, and it is with the representation of the fleet in these various sources that this project will be largely concerned.

Part 1.4: Chapter Outline:

18 Because the literary and material sources from the Classical period present complicated, and at times contradictory, impressions of the Athenian navy, this dissertation will focus on each body of evidence individually. It is recognized that this division is somewhat forced and, in fact, further propagates the artificial division of media which has already been addressed above. Nevertheless, such a division will illustrate the very different conclusions that can be drawn when one prioritizes a single or anachronistic body of evidence. By highlighting such differences, this dissertation will illustrate the multifaceted and complex position that the navy held in Athenian society during the 5th century.

The representation of naval imagery on Attic vases of the Archaic and Classical periods is the subject of the first chapter. In this chapter, I examine the depiction of seafaring on Geometric and Archaic black-figure vases and address the surprising disappearance of ship iconography from Athenian red-figure vases of the Classical period. This disappearance is particularly puzzling because it happens at the moment when Athenian naval power was gaining in prominence. The vanishing of ship imagery is often read as an attempt on the part of elite patrons of these vases to distance themselves from the low-class connotations of the rowers and the fleet. Taking into consideration other kinds of iconographic shifts in red-figure and the role of these elite as financial backers of the navy, I argue in contrast that throughout the 5th century the navy was symbolically represented on vases in other ways – specifically, by the appearance of maritime gods and heroes, such as Poseidon, Boreas, and Theseus. This leads to a reconsideration of the public and elite attitudes toward the fleet in this period of Athenian naval ascendancy.

19 Indeed, while ships were rarely represented on painted vessels of the 5th century, naval monuments and buildings had considerable impact elsewhere, particularly on the physical space of the city. The second chapter will argue that the navy had a positive presence in the visual landscape of Classical Athens through trophies and monuments erected to celebrate naval victories and commemorate sailors killed in battle. In addition,

I will argue that the construction of the Long Walls and the ship-sheds in Athens, monumental constructions specifically tied to the city’s navy, were far more than merely functional civic buildings. Rather, these buildings dramatically transformed the visual landscape of the city and came to be synonymous with Athenian power and expansion.

Finally, the chapter will examine the place of the navy in the sanctuaries and rituals of the city. The construction of a temple to Boreas after the battle of Artemesion, the depiction of Poseidon on the Parthenon, and the importance of the Panathenaic Ship (paraded through the city during its most important religious festival) all highlight the city’s ever increasing identification as a naval power. Such monuments, constructed by the state and highly visible in the public space of the city, both commemorated and celebrated the navy in a positive way.

The third chapter will investigate the position of the navy in the literary works of

5th century Athenian authors. Rather than relying on authors such as Plato, Aristotle, and

Plutarch, who – despite having a great deal to say about Athenian naval power – were writing in significantly later and different historical contexts, this chapter will focus solely on the literary output of the period with which this dissertation is concerned. By focusing on Aeschylus’ Persians, Aristophanes’ Knights, and the history of Thucydides, this chapter will track the increasing ambivalence toward the navy in Athens over the

20 course of the 5th century. I argue that the achievements of the navy were treated with optimism and pride following the defeat of the Persians at Salamis, but that this popularity gradually waned as the navy played a central role in the city’s increasingly aggressive and contentious expansionism through the close of the Peloponnesian War.

That the perception of the navy changed dramatically in the hundred years following its inception under Themistokles illustrates the complex and complicated position the fleet held in the social identity of the Athenian polis. It is with this complexity that the concluding chapter is concerned. Drawing together both the literary and material evidence, this final chapter will not only illustrate that the position of the navy in

Athenian self-identity was far from monolithic and unchanging, but will also demonstrate the important ways in which these various sources problematize the prioritization of a single medium in consideration of Athenian social, political, and cultural history.

21 Chapter 2: Sailing the Wine-Dark Sea: Naval Imagery and Athenian Vase Painting from the Geometric to the Classical Period

Synopsis:

Richard Neer has noted that “ships were not desired [on red-figure Athenian vases] – even when the Athenian navy was transforming the city into an imperial power, even when the navy was the ostensible theme of the picture.”1 Neer explains this surprising disappearance of ship imagery as an attempt by Athenian elites to distance themselves from the “democratic soldiers” who manned the ships. Yet Neer’s assertion does not address the nuances of elite involvement in Athenian naval affairs and overlooks parallel shifts in iconography that developed alongside the establishment of the red-figure technique. In this chapter, I trace the development of maritime and naval iconography in the Geometric, black-figure, and red-figure vase paintings of the Archaic and Classical periods. While Neer is correct in his assertion that naval iconography noticeably changed in the 5th century, I argue that this shift was not the result of an elite disdain for the fleet, but rather was the product of thematic shifts in vase painting that affected the iconography of numerous subjects popular before the development of red-figure. In addition, I question whether elite members of the Athenian community would have attempted to distance themselves so emphatically from the city’s navy, with which they were integrally involved through their service as trierarchs.

1 Neer 2002, 163-4. 22 In his Persians, Aeschylus’ Atossa, the Persian queen mother, asks the chorus of elders whether the Athenians possessed wealth in their homes. The chorus responds that the Athenians “possess a stream of silver, a treasure beneath the earth” (240).2 It is this

“stream of silver” to which Herodotus attributes the increased might of the Athenian navy on the eve of Xerxes’ invasion of Attica. Herodotus relates how Themistokles persuaded the Athenians to use the newly acquired wealth from the silver mines at Laurion for the construction of two hundred warships to battle their perennial rival Aegina, thus

“compelling the Athenians to become skilled in seamanship” (7.144).3 The realization of

Themistokles’ strategy came to pass with the successful defeat of the Persian fleet at

Salamis in 480, a victory that established Athens as the pre-eminent naval power in the

Aegean for most of the 5th century. The relatively rapid rise of Athenian naval power in the first quarter of the 5th century altered the role of the fleet and those who manned it in the social organization of the polis. Because the navy suddenly had a more prominent position in the military activities of the city, it is perhaps reasonable to expect an increased presence of the ships and sailors who made up this new power in the artistic record of the early Classical period, especially given the long tradition of seafaring and naval warfare represented in Attic art throughout the Geometric and Archaic periods; yet, naval iconography almost entirely disappears from artistic representations just as Athens

2 ἀργύρου πηγή τις αὐτοῖς ἐστι, θησαυρὸς χθονός (Pers. 240). The exact position of this line in the series of Atossa’s questions is not entirely certain from the manuscript tradition. I have used the order given in H. D. Broadhead’s (1960) edition, which is based on Trendelenberg’s transposition of lines 237- 238 to follow lines 239-240. Despite these changes, there is little reason to doubt the soundness of the line and its content. 3 ἀναγκάσας θαλασσίους γενέσθαι Ἀθηναίους (7.144). There is some uncertainty concerning the source of this silver. Herodotus (7.144) suggests that the revenue for the fleet was accrued from the mines at Laurion, while the author of the Athenian Constitution attributes this wealth to the newly discovered mines at Maroneia ([Ath. Pol.] 22.7). For brief discussions of these varying accounts, see Kalcyk 1982, 23-6; Podlecki 1975, 201-4 (with additional bibliography); and Wallace 1962, 28-32, 201-4. 23 was establishing its naval hegemony.4 This chapter addresses this apparent discrepancy between the visual tradition of naval iconography and the historical prominence of the navy during the Classical period.

Part 2.1: Death and Display: Geometric Vase Painting and Naval Iconography

As early as the Geometric period, scenes of seafaring and naval battles represent a significant body of evidence in Attic vase painting, most notably perhaps in the collection of late Geometric (c. 760-735) vessels discovered in the cemetery outside the Dipylon gate in Athens.5 These vases, which were found in a cluster of burials along modern

Piraeus Street in the 19th century, are now held in a variety of museum and collections scattered throughout Europe and the United States.6 Numerous examples of monumental kraters and amphorae in various states of preservation were uncovered in these excavations. These large-scale vessels, some up to a meter in height, once marked the graves of individuals of elite status and display a variety of figural episodes, many funerary in subject matter.7 For instance, scenes of prothesis recur on a number of

4 This seeming contradiction has been noted by Neer (2002, 164). 5 This group has been extensively studied. For discussions of the dates of the vessels and the identification of possible hands, see, for example, Coldstream 1968, 29-41 and 2003, 110-23; Davison 1961, 21-40; Chamoux 1945; and Nottbohm, 1943. For more iconographic treatments of this group, particularly regarding the naval scenes, see Torr 1894 (with references to early work on the Dipylon group); Gray 1974, 22-6, 57-61; Morrison and Williams 1968, 12-28; Ahlberg 1971, 25-38, 42-3; Rombos 1988, 153-60; and Basch 1987, 161-87. 6 Dümmler 1888, 294-303; Pernice 1892; Brückner and Pernice 1893, 135-56; and Poulsen 1905, 10-49. 7 Kurtz and Boardman (1971, 56-8) as well as Morris (1987, 18-21) and Whitley (1991, 140-1) note the use of such vessels as grave markers in the Geometric period. The large size (some over a meter in height) and elaborate decoration of the Dipylon kraters suggest that these vases were expensive to produce, and so likely point to the burial of individuals of elite status (see also Ahlberg 1971, 68-9; Whitley 1991, 159). It has been argued by these authors, as well as Coldstream (2003, 110), that the use of the krater and the 24 examples from the group and highlight the funerary function of these monumental pieces

(fig. 1-2). In addition to portrayals of burial rites, scenes of battle and military activity figure prominently. A number of vases depict warships and ship-borne soldiers; one krater, now located in the Louvre (fig. 3), displays multiple scenes of both land and sea battles.8 Its central panel, which is only partially preserved, portrays a warrior holding a

Dipylon shield (an oval shield with cut-out sides) as well as two spears, standing on the ram of a ship as though about to board. On the ship’s deck, a number of figures, some holding spears and at least one holding a square shield, appear to be attacking one another. Beneath this central panel two more bands of painted decoration are preserved, the lower one again with an image of a ship. This second ship, which is more damaged than the first, is approached by two warriors with Dipylon shields and spears, once again as if they are about to board. Both images give the impression of ships beached upon the shore around which a battle is fought, in a manner similar to that described in book 15 of the Iliad.9

Scenes of military activity around warships are not unique to the Dipylon group; they appear on other pieces also considered to be monumental grave markers. One such example in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York is a monumental krater that contains a continuous figured zone around its belly. The figured band of this piece,

amphora was meant to designate the gender of the deceased, with the krater marking a male burial, and the amphora a female one. This association has been largely accepted, though see Houby-Nielsen (1995, 131- 2, 138-40), who points out some of the possible limitations of such associations, and Whitley (1991, 158), who argues that “there is no single artefact or attribute which will infallibly distinguish male from female interments.” 8 Paris, Louvre A 527: CVA France 18, Louvre 11, Pl. 2.1-4, 6 and Pl. 3.1 and 10 (with bibliography); Davis 1961, 29-31; Ahlberg 1971, 33-4; Morrison and Williams 1968, 18-9. 9 Hom. Il. 15.263-389. 25 which is now considered to be later than the vases of the Dipylon group (c. 735-710), depicts two scenes of battle around what are most likely beached ships (fig. 4).10 On each ship, a variety of warriors, including archers, swordsmen, and soldiers with spears and

Dipylon shields engage in battle, while to the sides of the ships a series of armed soldiers is shown marching to the right (fig. 5). It is unclear what these scenes are meant to represent, but in both this example, as well as that from the Louvre, the prominence of the ship in the iconography is particularly striking. This emphasis on the ship has led scholars such as Gudrun Ahlberg to suggest that these episodes reflect contemporary

Athenian naval campaigns, part of Athens’ attempts, according to Herodotus, to establish its dominance over neighboring Aegina and to curb piracy in the Aegean.11 According to this reading, the use of these vases in a funerary context is seen as a reflection of the community’s interest in contemporary naval activities.12 The state of preservation of these pieces and the limited contemporary written accounts from the period, however, make Ahlberg’s reading difficult to maintain, especially since no specific date can be ascribed to these early historical events. Such a desire to use artistic depictions as a representation of specific historical events illustrates the limited manner in which military imagery is commonly utilized, even when the historical record of the period is fragmentary at best.

10 New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 34.11.2 (Fletcher Fund 1934). For discussions of the date of the krater, see Richter (1934) and Davison (1961, 129-30), who both suggest a date earlier than the Dipylon group, though Davison notes that some of its characteristics of the decoration point to a later date. Davison argues, though, that such characteristics are a reflection of the “haphazard” production of early Geometric art. The dates proposed by Richter and Davison have now been questioned by Marwitz (1961), who argues that the stylistic traits of the vase suggest a date later than the Dipylon group. For iconographical examinations of the krater, see Morris and Williams 1968, 30-2 (with bibliography); Ahlberg 1971, 27-9; and Basch 1987, 178-9. 11 Hdt. 5.85-9. 12 Ahlberg 1971, 68-70. 26 Because of these limitations, it has also been argued that these scenes do not represent historical events at all, but rather allude to the heroic past, and so link the deceased with the exploits of the Homeric heroes.13 This interpretation is in part based on the iconography of the scenes, most notably the use of the so-called Dipylon shields, which have been linked to Bronze Age figure-eight shields. But John Boardman has questioned this connection, arguing that the Dipylon shields may, in fact, represent equipment in common use as late as 700, reasserting the nature of these scenes as representations of contemporary subjects.14 Interest in the contemporary significance of these representations of warships has also led to the conclusion that the vases were commissioned by the naukraroi, a group of wealthy citizens, who, it is suggested, supplied, maintained, and commanded Athenian ships and crews during the 7th and 6th centuries.15 As with any attempt to link such images to identifiable historic events, the association of these vessels to a specific social class or economic institution is problematized by the scarcity of contemporary references to the naukraroi as well as the less-than-certain status of the individuals whose graves were marked by these large vessels.16

13 See, for example, Chamoux 1945, 94-7. 14 Boardman 2001, 191-2. See also Hurwit (1985, 124), who argues that Dipylon shields, while perhaps not in common use as suggested by Boardman, were nevertheless produced during the Geometric period. He sees the production of these shields in the 8th century not as a product of military necessity, but rather as “a way of making the nobles of the eighth century more like the figures of their legends and epics.” For further discussion of this question, see Whitley 1991, 51-2. 15 Helbig 1898. For the naukraroi and the problems surrounding the nature of their service, see Wallinga 1993, 16-31 and Gabrielsen 1994, 19-24. 16 Gabrielsen 1994, 20. Whitley (1991, 67-70, 197-8) has reiterated some of the difficulties inherent in attempts to link iconography and material evidence to specific, historical institutions, especially given our limited knowledge of early Athenian social organization. Whitley’s generalized conclusions highlight the fact that broad social changes and trends may be identifiable through careful examination of material 27 While the exact meaning of these scenes may never be certain, the prominence of naval imagery on funerary monuments of the Geometric period is noteworthy, especially since such iconography does not appear on the stone grave markers that become popular late in the 7th century. In the Geometric period, naval imagery of this sort is not limited merely to the funerary monuments; it also appears on a small number of private vessels such as bowls (fig. 6), cups (fig. 7), and skyphoi (fig. 8), in addition to numerous votive offerings, most notably from the Acropolis (fig. 9).17 While these examples highlight the pervasiveness of maritime iconography during the 9th and 8th centuries, the archaeological record of the early Archaic period has predominately preserved such imagery on vessels of a funerary nature. With the development of the proto-Attic style early in the 7th century and the eventual emergence of Athenian black-figure vase painting of the

Archaic period, however, ship iconography begins to appear more frequently on a broader range of smaller, non-funerary vase types. While fragments of proto-Attic kraters with ship images may suggest a lingering use of naval imagery in monumental, terracotta funerary monuments of the early 7th century (fig. 10), by the time black-figure emerged as the dominant style in Athens during the 6th century, there seemed to be little or no market for such large vases; rather, a broad range of largely sympotic vessels began to receive the majority of figural decoration, including images of ships and rowers.18

remains and burial customs, but links to recognizable social organizations and specific historical events remain beyond our reach. 17 For examples of these other types of vessels on which ship iconography appears, see the catalogues of Basch (1987, 161-87) as well as Morrison and Williams (1986, 28-37). For the small number of ship images on votive offerings from the Acropolis, such as several plaques and numerous unidentified fragments, see Boardman (1954, 195-6) and Morrison and Williams (1986, 29-37). See also the small terracotta ship figurines presented by Morgan 1935, 196-7. 18 Boardman 2001, 45, 55-8. 28

Part 2.2: The Symposium at Sea: Naval Imagery and Athenian Black-Figure Vase Painting of the Archaic Period

An early example (c. 600-550) of naval imagery in black-figure decoration appears on an Attic hydria said to have been found in Etruria and now located in the

Louvre (fig. 11).19 On one of the shoulders of this hydria, a ship with a boar’s head ram is propelled by a single bank of oars rowed by pairs of clearly depicted oarsmen. At the rear of the ship, the helmsman (kubernetes) appears to be communicating with the boatswain (keleustes), who stands amidship as a link between the helmsmen and the bow officer (prorates), who is shown looking toward the stern.20 The row of shields, which hang from the gunwale, emphasizes the military nature of this ship, a theme that is reinforced by the battle scene depicted on the body of the hydria. As with the earlier

Geometric examples, it is uncertain whether this image represents a type of ship in use during the 7th century, alludes to a heroic or mythic episode, such as the voyage of the

Argo, or conflates the mythic with the contemporary.21 In any case, there is a great deal of attention given to the detailed presentation of the rowers and officers onboard. Such a careful emphasis on the crews, a motif that appears as early as the Geometric (fig. 6 and

19 Paris, Louvre E 735: ABV 85.2; (with bibliography); Pottier 1901, 69-70; Morrison and Williams 1968, 86 (with bibliography); Basch 1987, 216-22. 20 For a general idea of the role of the various members of such a crew, albeit from a later period, see Morrison, Coates, and Rankov 2000, 108-18. While it cannot be suggested that the crew of a trireme from the Classical period was manned in the same way as a ship from the early 7th century, the description given by Morrison et al. provides a useful introduction for the relationship between the various men and officers required to man such ships. 21 For discussions of the possible identification of the image on this hydria, see Morrison and Williams 1968, 90-1 as well as Basch 1987, 216-7. 29 12) and proto-Attic (fig. 13) periods, highlights the individual contributions of each man aboard the ship.

By the second half of the 6th century, however, ship iconography undergoes a noticeable change. Vases no longer depict carefully delineated individual members of the crew, with the occasional exception of helmsmen and bow officers, but rather emphasize details of the ships themselves, including depictions of masts, riggings, and sails (fig. 14-15). The rowers of the ship are largely reduced to a series of indistinguishable, stylized heads barely visible over the gunwale, and a long bank of repetitively rendered oars underscore the size and type of ship rather than the men who propel it (fig. 16). This new attention to specific components of the vessel, rather than the crew, has been linked to developments in ship construction during the Archaic period, particularly the rise of the triacontor (τριακόντορος, thirty-oared ship) and pentacontor

(πεντηκόντερος, fifty-oared ship), which functioned as both military and commercial vessels. For this reason, naval iconography from black-figure vases (c. 560-480) has been commonly used for discussions of ship typology and design.22 While such studies have proven useful for theoretical ship reconstructions, such as the construction of the

Olympias trireme in the 1980’s (fig. 17), artistic representations rarely offer true-to-life reflections of actual objects or events.23 This new attention to detail may in fact be the result of a heightened interest in realistic ship portrayal, but it is just as likely the consequence of developments in black-figure technique, which became increasingly

22 Morrison and Williams 1968, 91-117; Basch 1987, 230-3; Casson 1971, 60-5; Morrison, Coates, and Rankov 2000, 127-78. 23 Casson (1971, 71-74) warns of just such limitations in his discussion of ship portrayals on Geometric art. As Casson notes, certain artistic conventions result “in features that cannot be taken at face value.” 30 delicate, and often miniaturistic, over the course of the 6th century.24 A series of vessels known as the Little Master Cups highlights this careful attention to detail and demonstrates the capability of black-figure painters to achieve a high degree of delicacy, whether simply depicting animals or more complicated figural scenes (fig. 18-19). In addition, this shift toward a more detailed depiction of ship imagery late in the 6th century may also reflect the limited availability of the field to be painted, as nautical scenes became more commonly relegated to smaller, largely sympotic vases, rather than the monumental vessels of the Geometric and early Archaic periods.25

The use of naval iconography on such vessels hints at a connection between wine, the sea, and symposia and suggests a significant shift from the meaning of ships that appeared on the monumental, funerary vases of the Geometric period. As William Slater has noted, as early as the Archaic period, symposiasts frequently “are depicted as, or believe themselves to be, sailors in situations ranging from calm…to noisy shipwreck.”26

A fragment of Pindar’s eulogy for Thrasyboulos of Akragas, for example, likens the diners to sailors who “all, in like manner, float upon a sea of golden riches to a false shore” (Encomia fr. 124a, strophe 2, 6-7).27 This connection between symposiasts and sailors is taken to its extreme in an excerpt from Athenaeus, who is relating a tale told by

24 Clark, Elston, and Hart 2002, 7-8; Noble 1988, 99-102; Boardman 2001, 58-66. 25 Boardman 2001, 55. 26 Slater 1976, 163. This idea has been furthered by Mark Davies (1978, 80-1), who notes that “the thought of sailing or rowing a ship through the night at a symposium is, after all, a very gratifying fantasy in which to indulge oneself and one’s drinking-companions.” 27 πελάγει δ’ ἐν πολυχρύσοιο πλούτου/πάντες ἴσᾳ νέοµεν ψευδῆ πρὸς ἀκτάν (Encomia fr. 124a, strophe 2, 6-7). 31 Timaeus of Tauromenium.28 In this story, Timaeus tells of a house in Akragas, Sicily that is known as the “trireme” because a group of young men drinking in the home became so inebriated that they thought themselves at sail in a bad storm. To lighten the

“ship,” the men began to hurl furniture out of the windows and doors, arousing no little curiosity from a crowd of onlookers, who gathered to view the spectacle and then made off with the furniture. While this story from Athenaeus is far later than the period with which this project is concerned, it vividly illustrates the connection between symposiasts, sailors, and the sea that appears in the lyric poetry of the late Archaic period.

This connection is reinforced by the nautical imagery that appears on black-figure vases such as dinoi (fig. 20), kylikes (fig. 21), and kraters (fig. 22), all of which were used in the symposium.29 As François Lissarrague has demonstrated, the use of naval iconography on such vessels literalizes the Homeric metaphor of the “wine-dark sea”

(οἶνοψ πόντος),30 as ships are shown around the inside of the necks and rims of these vases so that when they are filled, the boats would appear to float on the wine (fig. 23-

24).31 In this way, the wine symbolizes the sea and, combined with the painting, brings the Homeric metaphor to life. The conceit of such imagery as well as the symposiasts own consideration of themselves as sailors upon the sea highlight the strong connections between naval imagery and communal dining in the later Archaic period. This

28 Timaeus, FGrHist 566 F149. See Davidson (1997, 45), who notes that this “story belongs to a rich Greek tradition of marine metaphors for the sympotic community. The high sea represents the boundlessness of wine, the obliteration of points of reference.” See also Lissarrague 1990, 108-110. 29 For a more complete list of such scenes during this period, see the catalogues of Basch (1987, 202-33) and Morrison and Williams (1968, 91-127). For a list of kylikes on which such images appear, see Buitron-Oliver 1986, 272-3. 30 Hom. Il. 2.613, 5.771, 7.88, 23.143, 23.316; Od. 1.183, 2.421, 3.286, 4.474, 5.132, 5.221, 5.349, 6.170, 7.250, 12.388, 19.172, 19.274. 31 Lissarrague 1990, 112-4; Siedentopf 1990, 323. 32 combination, according to Lissarrague, allows the community of male citizens “[to reassert] itself again and again by means of two collective actions, the symposion and warfare, which have certain similarities, are to some degree interdependent, and refer to one another through the play of reflections in the wine.”32 Such a trend is perhaps a further example of what John Boardman has seen as an increased tendency among 6th century Athenian vase painters to emphasize civic attitudes and institutions in their art.33

As Tonio Hölscher has argued, such scenes on vases “mirror not only individual interests of vase painters and the purchasers of their products but also the themes of social discourse during the important occasions when they were used, especially the symposium.”34 In such a way, the symposium and the naval iconography often associated with it become intertwined with the civic and military duty of the participants in the feast.35

By the end of the 6th century, the monumental, funerary use of such images, which was seen in the Geometric period, had given way to the depiction of ships on vessels for private consumption, often for use in symposia. The iconography used during these periods also changes significantly over time, as scenes of naval battle and individual contribution give way to less-warlike images that emphasize the role and action of the ship, rather than the individual action of its crew and officers. While these later, mostly sympotic vases express fewer scenes of battle, their military nature is

32 Lissarrague 1990, 116. 33 Boardman 1998, 117. 34 Hölscher 1998, 176-8. 35 For the strong connection between warfare and the symposium, see Murray 1991, who sees a close, and often essential, relationship between the social use of alcohol and the creation of a warrior elite. While this connection may be slightly overstated by Murray, the relationship between the symposium and the warrior elite is difficult to deny. 33 reaffirmed by the types of ships displayed as well as the close connection between the actions of the symposium and civic duty in the form of military service.36 As in the

Geometric period, naval iconography during the Archaic period is not limited to only one context, and a very small number of dedications, such as an engraved tile from near the

Temple of Apollo Zoster in Vouliagmene (fig. 25), attest to the continued votive significance of such images, which were perhaps used as thank offerings for safe sea- voyages;37 nevertheless, it is on sympotic vases that ship imagery finds its greatest prominence during the Archaic period. While this reflects a remarkable change in the context of such imagery, seafaring and naval warfare continue to maintain a preeminent position in the artistic representations of both the Geometric and Archaic periods. With the development of red-figure vase painting in the last quarter of the 6th century, however, such imagery drops almost entirely from the iconography of Athenian vases.

Part 2.3: The Vanishing Fleet: Ship Imagery and Red-Figure Vases of the Classical Period

This sudden disappearance of naval imagery has been attributed to the change in technique, and it has been argued that rendering a ship in red-figure became too difficult for artists to pursue with any regularity. As John Morrison and Roderick Williams have

36 While it is uncertain whether the ships portrayed on these vases are strictly military, Wallinga (1993, 16- 18, 38-9) has convincingly shown that large ships in Athens during this period likely served both a military and merchant function that were not always independent of one another. See also Casson 1971, 157-68 and Gabrielsen 2000, 24-5. 37 See, for example, Mikalson’s (2005, 14-6) brief discussion of votives as thank offerings for safe travel. A small bronze lamp in the shape of a 6th century galley, which is now in the National Museum in Athens, could be seen as another such votive; however, its original use is uncertain due to its later dedication at the Erechtheion sometime in the late 5th or early 4th century. For a discussion of the date of this piece, see Basch (1987, 228-9) and Paton (1927, 572). 34 proposed, “It seems likely that the ship had become so complicated a subject to depict, with its three banks of oars and the problems of perspective which these, as well as the outrigger supports and deck-stanchions, presented, that artists in general had been avoiding the task.”38 This conclusion stems from the mechanics behind the red-figure technique, in which figures were drawn in outline, the background was painted black, and any interior detail was rendered with the use of a thin black line.39 Figures are expressed through the reserved red of the vase rather than the black of the slip, a process that has been considered more labor-intensive than that of black-figure, due to the need to carefully delineate backgrounds and set figures apart from it through the use of raised relief lines.40 Such a technique may have made the depiction of the rows and banks of oars as well as the intricate system of riggings more difficult to render, as it was likely simpler to draw thin black lines directly onto a red background than to try to leave such lines in reserve on a black background. Despite such difficulties, however, even the earliest red-figure painters are able to render intricate details and complicated lines against a black background. For example, a vase by the Andokides Painter, which depicts a scene of Herakles driving a bull, shows the artist’s ability to render fine lines in red-figure, as the tree in the background weaves itself into a complicated series of overlapping branches (fig. 26).41 In addition, artists are able to render details such as the strings of a lyre or a bow (fig. 27) against a black background, albeit through the subsequent use of red paint added to the surface of the vase.

38 Morrison and Williams 1968, 169. 39 Noble 1988, 54-8; Boardman 2001, 79; Robertson 1992, 7. 40 Robertson 1992, 7-9; von Bothmer 1966, 205-6. 41 Boston: Museum of Fine Arts 99.538: ABV 253.6 (with bibliography); ARV2 5.14. For a detailed discussion of the style of this painter and examples of his work, see von Bothmer 1966. 35 While the use of additional colors becomes far less frequent after the earliest stages in the development of red-figure, it did remain a viable option for artists throughout the Classical period.42 The riggings of the ship of Odysseus are rendered by just such a technique on the well-known stamnos by the Siren Painter now in the British

Museum (fig. 28).43 Perhaps the earliest depiction of a ship in the red-figure technique, this vase, found in the area of Vulci and dating between 520 and 480, depicts Odysseus bound to the mast of his ship as it sails past the island of the sirens.44 The ship is shown in its entirety and occupies the majority of the scene and so differs from the conceit of the small-scale ship floating on the wine of sympotic vessels. A crew of four men somehow rows the six oars that propel the ship, and a helmsman is shown with his right hand extended as though shouting orders to the rowers. The artist has represented the rigging apparently without the difficulty suggested by Morrison and Williams, as the sail is shown bound to the yard and the ropes are gathered at the stern near the helmsman.

While the perspective of the yard and the ropes is not entirely realistic, it is clear that the artist, if called to do so, was able to deal with these complicated elements of ship design in a simple and convincing manner. While Morrison and Williams may be correct in their assertion that ships became too complicated to be realistically and accurately rendered, one should not assume that artists aimed to represent a true-to-life portrayal of contemporary naval technology. As François Lissarrague has cautioned, it must be

42 Robertson 1992, 8-9. 43 London: British Museum E 440: ARV2 289.1 (with bibliography); CVA England 4, British Museum 3, Pl. 20.1a-d (with bibliography); Morrison and Williams 1968, 114. 44 Hom. Od. 12.165-200. 36 remembered that images “do not reproduce all of reality, nor do they reproduce reality altogether.”45

Red-figure painters certainly had the ability to portray ships on their vases, as noted above. Indeed, Richard Neer has noted, “it would have been perfectly possible for vase-painters to depict the navy if such scenes were desired: their predecessors had done so.” 46 Even so, with the exception of the Siren Painter, few artists during the 5th century attempt to portray naval iconography in any sort of detail. A small number of red-figure vases do depict elements of naval iconography, most commonly the stern of a ship; yet, these images are typically relegated to areas outside the central action of the scene.

These depictions serve as a sort of shorthand indication of departure or arrival and so appear in mythological scenes such as the kidnapping of Talos by the Argonauts (fig. 29-

30) or Theseus’ abandonment of Ariadne on Naxos (fig. 31). But even these depictions are rare. The virtual disappearance of naval iconography during the 5th century appears to reflect not an avoidance of the complex rigging on the part of red-figure artists, but, instead, an active decision among patrons, artists, and consumers that is more likely to reflect a shift in the social, cultural, and political perception of the fleet than the artists’ inability to render complicated imagery. Such changing socio-political perceptions have been linked to a number of iconographical shifts during the 5th century. Alan Shapiro, for example, has linked the disappearance of homoerotic courting scenes during the first quarter of the 5th century to the rise of democracy and the increased focus on the integrity

45 Lissarrague 1990, 3: ‘De même que les images ne reproduisent pas tout du réel, elles ne reproduisent pas tout le réel.” 46 Neer 2002, 162-4. 37 of the nuclear family during the period.47 Sian Lewis has likewise seen a cultural impetus behind the changing depiction of women in vase painting during the Classical period.

She attributes this change not to the establishment of new societal ideologies, but rather to changes in the market for these images, as Athens’ ties to areas such as Etruria waned.

This shift does not necessarily reflect substantial changes in the reality of female life, but rather the abstract virtues of the now predominantly Athenian audience.48 The dramatic decline in naval iconography during the first quarter of the 5th century should be considered within a similarly socio-political framework, rather than being attributed solely to artistic constraint or inability.49

47 Shapiro 2000, 21. 48 Lewis 2002, 170-1. For additional discussions on the iconographical impact of social, political, and cultural changes in 5th century Athens, see Stewart (1995, 585-90), who links the increase in Amazon pictures during the mid-5th century as a response to an immigration crisis spurred by the Periklean citizenship laws. See also, Shapiro (1991, 656), who considers the development of scenes of mourning on vase painting to be a reflection of the rise in continuous, familial burial plots and the institution of communal burial over the course of the 5th century. In no way is this list exhaustive, but these works highlight the importance of social developments, not simply artistic ability, to the iconographic representations on vase painting during any period. 49 Such socio-political discussions of the iconography of Athenian vases are problematic due to the fact that many of these vases are found outside of Athenian contexts, most notably in the tombs of Etruria. Considerable discussion has arisen amongst scholars as to whether Athenian vases destined for export can be used to understand local Athenian ideology. Clemente Marconi (2004, 40), for instance, has suggested that a pluralistic interpretation of Athenian vases is necessary, since what he calls “generic scenes” would have had multiple and varying meanings depending on their context and function. Nigel Spivey (1991, 141-3) has also argued for such a pluralistic interpretation, since “decorated vases travel and speak to those who accommodate them.” Stated simply, once a vase leaves Athens, its meaning is no longer Athenian. Christoph Reusser (2002, 188-90), in his exhaustive treatment of Attic vases in Etruscan contexts, has taken the conclusion a step further, and has argued that Athenian craftsmen were aware of Etruscan demands, and produced popular imagery accordingly (see also Spivey 1991, 140-2). John Boardman (1991, 84-89), on the other hand, argues that the iconography of Athenian vases was just as likely to have been shaped by contemporary historical events or cultural trends in Athens as by generic references to well- known literature or myth. Despite its eventual use, then, the iconography is still a reflection of Athenian values, trends, or beliefs. In his examination of the so-called Brygos Tomb, Dyfri Williams (1992, 635-5) has even gone so far as to identify the deceased in an Etruscan tomb as Athenian based on what he sees as exclusively Athenian iconography. Robin Osborne (2004, 52) approaches the material in a slightly more cautious manner, suggesting that “the range of imagery from which purchasers elsewhere chose was determined by interests and demands at Athens itself,” though he allows, as Marconi does, that such imagery could take on a variable or diverging meaning within a context outside of Athens (see also Lissarrague 1987, 267-9). It is with this approach that the socio-political interpretation of Athenian naval imagery will proceed. While it is understood that Athenian vases found outside of Athenian contexts very 38 Depictions of seafaring and naval battle during the Geometric and Archaic periods were closely associated with the upper class. Whether such images were portrayed on monumental, Geometric funerary monuments, whose expense likely limited their production to only the wealthier members of the community, or appeared as illusionistic conceits on vessels reserved for the elite institution of the Archaic symposium, it is clear that the upper strata of these communities associated themselves closely with the naval activities of their time.50 As early as the catalogue of ships in the

Iliad, power appears to be reckoned, at least in part, through naval power, which was controlled by elite members of the various Hellenic communities.51 While this catalogue reveals little about the nature of naval organization, it highlights the association of the elite with the control and command of naval power at an early date. This association may be tied into an early held belief that the wealthy were morally obligated to use some of their wealth for the benefit of the community in order to establish their own aretê and agathos, as a means of reinforcing their position in the community.52 By the late 7th century, it appears as though administration and maintenance of the fleet may have become a serious concern of early Athenian state organization. During this period, the

likely took on distinct function and meanings, the vases were nevertheless products of Athens, and so influenced by cultural, historical, and social trends within the city and among its citizens. 50 For the elite connection to the Geometric funerary kraters, see Coldstream 2003, 110-123, 132-7. For the elite association with sympotic activities during the Archaic period, see Schmitt-Pantel 1990, 14-6 and Neer 2002, 9-10. 51 Hom. Il. 2.484-760; Momigliano 1960, 57; Wallinga 1993, 16. 52 Gabrielsen (1994, 7). Arthur Adkins (1960, 34) has stressed this point in his discussion of the responsibilities of elite men in the works of Homer. He argues, “If we examine the culture revealed by these terms of value [agathos and aretê], we discover a society whose highest commendation is bestowed upon men who must successfully exhibit the qualities of a warrior, but must also be men of wealth and social position; men, too, who must display their valour both in war and in peace to protect their dependents: a function in which they must succeed, for the most powerful words in the language are used to denigrate those who fail.” 39 polis was divided into a series of forty-eight administrative districts known as naukrariai

(twelve apiece for each of the four tribes), which were responsible for the maintenance of a fund collected for state use. Although the exact nature and use of this fund remain uncertain, it has been suggested that each of the naukraria was responsible for the contribution and maintenance of a single ship for the defense of the polis.53 While the full extent of state-involvement in the organization of the early Athenian fleet remains a point of contention, it has been commonly accepted that the funding, provisioning, and construction of ships remained predominantly in the control of private, wealthy individuals.54 Such direct involvement in the naval activities of the early polis helps to explain the elite interest in displays of naval imagery during the Geometric and Archaic periods.

The rapid decline in naval iconography early in the 5th century has accordingly been linked to the de-privatization of the Athenian fleet and the establishment of the trierarchy under the democratic state. As mentioned above, the extent of state

53 Van Wees 1995, 157; Wallinga 1993, 16-8; Vélissaropoulos 1980, 14-21. The late 7th century date for the naval association of the naukrariai argued by these authors is based primarily on Aristotle’s reference to the Solonian laws ([Ath. Pol.] 8.3), which mention the naukrariai, though only as districts making financial contributions to the state. A passage in Herodotus (5.71) is used by Vélissarooulos to establish the institution of the naukrariai as early as the 7th century; however, this passage, just as the selection from Aristotle, does not connect the naukrariai specifically to naval organization. Only a later reference by the 2nd century CE lexicographer Julius Pollux (Onom. 8.108) refers specifically to naukrariai contributing a ship to the state. Victor Gabrielsen (1994, 19-24) has recognized these weaknesses and outlines the limitations of such a strong connection between the naukrariai and early naval organization; nevertheless, Gabrielsen cannot deny Solmsen’s (1898) argument that there is a strong etymological connection between the word naukrariai and the root nau-, which may have been derived from the word for a ship (ναῦς) and so linked the naukrariai to naval organization. Billigmeier and Dusing (1981) as well as Cecchini (1982-3) have argued against this etymological connection. While the exact nature of the naukraria remains uncertain, Gabrielsen (1994, 24-6) does not argue the fact that these ships were under private control, but could be called upon for the defense of the polis. 54 See previous note. 40 involvement in Archaic naval organization in Athens remains controversial;55 nevertheless, a highly organized, state-run navy had appeared no later than the Athenian victory at Salamis in 480.56 While the discovery of profitable silver mines in Attica certainly allowed for a dramatic increase in the number of ships available for use by the polis, this windfall represents merely the culmination of a more protracted naval policy that had likely begun with the Kleisthenic reforms in 508/7.57 By the end of the Persian

Wars, the state was in possession of at least 200 triremes intended solely for military or state purposes, and private ownership of military vessels seems to have largely fallen out of practice.58 Despite this shift in ownership and control of the city’s fleet, however,

Athens still relied on the contributions of its wealthiest citizens for the manning, provisioning, and upkeep of its navy.59 In order to secure these funds, the city levied a tax known as a liturgy (λειτουργία) on these rich citizens.

Little is known about the origin and creation of the liturgical system, which included not only taxes for the maintenance of the fleet, but also imposts for the sponsorship of plays and religious festivals. The earliest attested liturgical service in

55 As Gabrielsen (1994, 24-6) has noted, there is little evidence for a state-owned fleet in the Archaic period; rather, possession of ships likely remained in the hands of aristocratic families. At that time, the same ships would have been used for both mercantile and military purposes. Only with the development of the trireme, a strictly military vessel, and the establishment of the trierarchy would this system change. 56 Gabrielsen 1994, 31-4; Kaiser 2007, 447-8. 57 Hdt. 6.89; Gabrielsen 1994, 33. For the windfall from the silver mines in Attica, see Hdt. 7.144 and [Ath. Pol.] 22.7. 58 While the state owned the majority of ships that fought at Salamis, Herodotus (8.17) mentions that Kleinias, the son of Alkibiades, outfitted and manned a ship of his own against the Persians. While this is clearly a continuation of traditional practices surviving from the Archaic period, Herodotus seems to have mentioned Kleinias because his actions were exceptional. See Gabrielsen 1994, 26; Morrison, Coates, and Rankov 2000, 109. 59 Gabrielsen 1994, 26-7; Morrison, Coates, and Rankov 2000, 109. 41 Athens is that of the choregia (χορηγία), or the sponsorship of a chorus, in 502/1.60

While this date has suggested to many that the institution of the liturgy was a product of the democratic reforms of Kleisthenes, some have seen its origins in the social reorganizations and class designations of the Solonic reforms nearly a century earlier.61

Despite such uncertainties, the city seems to have established a liturgy for the provisioning of the state-owned fleet by the time the Athenian navy set out against the

Persians in 480.62 The exact requirements of this liturgy, known as the trierarchy

(τριηραρχία), are still uncertain, especially in its earliest stages; nevertheless, it appears to have included the one-year appointment of a wealthy individual for the manning, provisioning, maintenance, and command of a single trireme, which was provided by the state.63 The financial burden for such a task would certainly have been heavy. Because of these financial obligations, trierarchs, unlike those who performed other liturgies, were granted a two-year respite from liturgical obligation after their year of service, instead of the more common one-year exemption.64 Attempts to determine the exact amount of these expenditures are largely conjectural, yet it has been reasonably suggested that a year’s expenditure for a trierarch would, on average, range between 4,000 and 6,000 drachmas.65

60 Lytkkens 1997, 462-3; Davies 1967, 33. 61 For the connection between the establishment of the liturgy and the reforms of Kleisthenes, see Christ 2006, 146 and Gabrielsen 1994, 35; for its connections with the Solonic reforms, see Lytkkens 1997, 464-9. 62 Gabrielsen 1994, 35-9; Kaiser 2007, 448; Lyttkens 1997, 462-3; Christ 2006, 156. 63 Morrison, Coates, and Rankov 2000, 108-9. 64 Christ 2006, 152; Gabrielsen 1994, 86. Gabrielsen notes that it is not entirely clear when the right to this exemption was attained by those performing the trierarchy; nevertheless, the existence of such an exemption, regardless of the date of its inception, illustrates the heightened financial responsibilities of the trierarchs. 65 Christ 2006, 146-7; Lyttkens 1994, 76; Gabrielsen 1994, 49-50. 42 Such an exceptional burden on the wealthiest citizens of Athens has long been considered a deliberate attack on the landed aristocracy by the newly established democratic government. Andreas Andreades, in particular, long ago viewed the tremendous expense required for trierarchic service as an attempt by the demos, under the new democracy, to oppressively control or impoverish the upper-class members of the polis.66 While Andreades’ conclusions are considered overly pessimistic, they reflect the common assertion that the thetes, the lowest class of Athenian citizens, acquired an increased self-confidence and political awareness in the years following the Kleisthenic reforms of 508/7 – an awareness that translated to the promotion of their own political ends.67 The prominent role played by the thetes in their capacity as rowers in the fleet increased this confidence, particularly since the navy was instrumental in the spread and preservation of Athenian hegemony and democratic ideology after the battle of Salamis.68

The combination of these various factors, the de-privatization of the fleet, the increased dependence on the poorest classes for military success, and the heightened political awareness of the thetes, has supported the argument that the decline in ship iconography on vases of the early 5th century was the result not of artistic limitations, but rather of an elite disdain for and eventual rejection of the naval institution over which they once held

66 Andreades (1933, 132) has highlighted in particular the oppressive nature of the liturgies. He argues that in the institution of the liturgical system, the people “saw only the lessening of the wealth of the rich and consequently, instead of being distressed [by the diminution of national wealth], was pleased” (132). He elaborates on this idea and suggests that even the public courts, “possessed by the craze to level downwards – the disease of democracies – found that it was easier to strip the wealthy than to enrich the poor.” Boeckh (1886, 670) views the institution of the trierarchy with a similarly pessimistic outlook, yet does not ascribe such deliberate agency to the lower classes. Boeckh accepts that the wealthy may have been impoverished through their service as trierarchs, but he attributes this more to economic mismanagement and abuse of the system than lower class disdain for the rich. 67 For criticism of Andreades, see Gabrielsen 1994, 8-9. For increased self-confidence among the thetes, see Ober 1996, 51-2; van Wees 1995, 161-2. 68 Strauss 1996, 313; Ober 1998, 76-7; Raaflaub 1998b, 100-1. 43 prominence.69 As Barry Strauss has argued, “the people in Athens who were in a position to commission private art or to write fine literature are not likely to have held a high opinion of the ‘naval mob,’ which helps explain the relative paucity of references to ships and seamen in the extant products of Classical culture.”70

Such a conclusion, however, assumes that the trierarchy was perceived as, and intended to be, punitive from the moment of its inception; yet, in its earliest phases, this liturgy seems to have been embraced, if not enthusiastically, then at least willingly by the city’s wealthy citizens. As Herodotus notes, Kleinias, the son of Alkibiades, was eager to provide his own ship and sponsor his own crew at Salamis, even though he was not required to do so by the state.71 Kleinias’ selflessness may stand out as unique, but his willingness as a member of the Athenian elite to spend for the benefit of the state has led some scholars, such as Carl Lyttkens, to suggest that the trierarchy, in the early stages of its development, “was considered a duty and an honour for a rich Athenian.”72 Lyttkens contends that the trierarchy, and even the liturgical system as a whole, could not have functioned in Athens without at least some measure of quasi-voluntary compliance among the elite members of the polis.73 Such compliance was driven by an elite desire for public charis (favor/influence) and timē (esteem/honor), which translated to increased public standing and political influence for the wealthy.74

69 Neer 2002, 164. 70 Strauss 1996, 321. See also Strauss 2000, 266-7. 71 Hdt. 8.17. As Herodotus notes, Kleinias provided the ship and the men at his own expense (δαπάνην οἰκηίην παρεχόµενος), not through any compulsion by or support from the city. 72 Lyttkens 1994, 462; 1997, 474-9. See also Gabrielsen 1994, 9-10; Ober 1989, 226-30; Davies 1981, 128-30. 73 Lyttkens 1994, 77. 74 Ober 1989, 230-3; Lyttkens 1997, 478. 44 Scholars have recently objected to such an altruistic interpretation of the trierarchy.75 Edward Cohen, for example, accepts that some wealthy individuals would have eagerly committed large sums to liturgical service in order to gain increased “honor and glory,” but rejects the “romantic notion that Athenian taxpayers gloried in paying governmental charges.”76 Matthew Christ has argued that public exposure may have inspired aristocrats to participate in liturgies such as the choregia, but contends that “the trierarchy was considerably less visible to the public and hence less effective as an instrument for winning prestige.”77 These conclusions, however, rely almost exclusively on the writings of 4th century orators such as Lysias and Demosthenes. The financial and political situation in Athens had changed considerably since Salamis, and neither Cohen nor Christ can deny that the nature of liturgical service had changed with it.78 As Christ notes, “although the trierarchy may have been a largely voluntary office at its inception, it evolved in the fifth century into an unmistakably compulsory obligation as wealthy individuals came to regard it as burdensome and sought to avoid it.”79 Elite enthusiasm for liturgical service seems to have waned by the first quarter of the 4th century, yet there is little to suggest that trierarchic assignment in the early 5th century was nearly so burdensome as Andreades long ago suggested.

75 See, for example, Brooks Kaiser (2007, 450-60), who argues that service as a liturgist relied far more heavily on financial considerations than ideas of public recognition and political gain. As he notes, “Ancient historians have offered the desire for timē or aretē as a significant explanation of the lack of court cases [related to the liturgy]. But as other ancient historians point out…we need not rely on this explanation alone.” See also Christ 2006, 176-84. 76 Cohen 1992, 199. 77 Christ 2006, 179. 78 Cohen 1992, 196-7; Christ 2006, 156-8. See also Kaiser 2007, 457; Lyttkens 1994, 75-6; 1997, 463; Gabrielsen 1994, 221-6. 79 Christ 2006, 207. Emphasis is my own. 45 That early trierarchic service was at least quasi-voluntary and secured a not inconsiderable amount of public recognition for its elite participants makes the rapid decline in naval iconography early in the 5th century all the more surprising. If wealthy

Athenian citizens embraced early naval participation, it is unlikely that some sort of elite disdain contributed to the near disappearance of ship imagery in red-figure vases of the

5th century, as Strauss and Neer have argued. In addition, both Strauss and Neer fail to explain the non-elite’s apparent hesitance to establish its own identity through the adoption of naval iconography. The near absence of such iconography from the artistic record of the 5th century is especially surprising in this respect, given the fact that participation in naval military activity is considered a major catalyst for thetic involvement in the political organization of the state. Strauss argues that such an absence of naval iconography may be due, in part, to the thetes’ inability to purchase elaborate pottery or commission large-scale monuments; yet, as Catherine Keesling has shown in her treatment of votive offerings on the Acropolis, the ability to commission such expensive vases and monuments “carries with it economic implications that do not inevitably reflect social position.”80 That the thetes were considered the lowest social class in Athens, then, does not preclude their ability to afford and commission monumental artwork. As such, Strauss has attributed the thetic hesitance to formulate a fully developed and distinct identity through iconography to their desire to maintain an association with the traditional ideology of the hoplite infantry, rather than with the naval organization from which their power was derived.81 The prominence of the hoplite in the

80 Keesling 2003, 74. 81 Strauss 1996, 322. Loren Samons II (1998, 119) has cautioned that due to the limited wealth and leisure of those of the lowest classes, “the nature of our evidence…will always privilege the study of ‘elite’ 46 public imaginary (a term coined by Nicole Loraux for the “figures in which a society apprehends its identity”) is seen, then, as a reflection of the hoplite’s continued centrality as a symbol of civic duty and aretê in the Classical period, despite the infantry’s increasing marginalization in the predominantly naval campaigns of the 5th century.82

According to Strauss’ interpretation, the Athenian poor were envious of the prestige accorded the infantry and so appropriated hoplite iconography as their own, effectively equating themselves with the higher wealth, status, prestige, and political power associated with the hoplite ranks since the 6th century.83 That is, the thetic rowers of the navy consequently appropriated hoplite iconography in an attempt to establish their class as a politically and socially legitimate participant in the democratic organization of

Classical Athens. Such an interest, in Strauss’ view, contributed to the absence of naval iconography in 5th century pottery. Combined with elite disdain for the heightened prominence of the “naval mob,” the thetes’ desire to affiliate themselves with the traditional prestige of the hoplites led to widespread abandonment of naval iconography in the early years of the 5th century, despite the heightened prominence and importance of the Athenian navy at that time.

Not only do I find the suggestion that the iconography of painted pottery was influenced so directly and dramatically by a single class problematic, such an interpretation, in my view, seriously underestimates the considerable elite involvement in

elements within that culture.” Strauss recognizes such a limitation, but refutes the idea that the thetes had no means of expressing their own ideology in a meaningful and non-ephemeral manner. 82 Pritchard 1998, 44-52; Lissarrague 1990, 236-7. For the concept of the imaginary, see Loraux 1986, 336-8. 83 Strauss 1996, 322. For similar discussions of the thetic rowers’ envy and emulation of the heavily armed infantry, see Pritchard 1998, 47-8 and Hanson 1996, 306-7. 47 the organization and maintenance of the fleet under the democracy.84 As mentioned above, the elite bore a substantial financial burden in their service as trierarchs. While the expense of ship construction, which was financed by the income from the silver mines, may have been borne by the state, the provisioning, manning, and upkeep of these ships became the responsibility of the wealthiest citizens.85 Far from viewing this responsibility as an attempt by the lowest classes to subvert elite wealth and control,

Victor Gabrielsen suggests that the trierarchic liturgy actually maintained traditional aristocratic practices and values. He argues that the liturgy celebrated the aristocratic ideals of competitive generosity and military prowess and served as an outlet for elite contribution to the city. These contributions in turn entitled the elites to certain important political positions and a share in the political organization of the state.86 Such interdependence between elite naval control and the political stability of the polis gave the trierarchs “powerful reasons to develop a self-awareness—and insist on wide

84 For a discussion of the elite nature of iconography on painted pottery, see Arafat and Morgan (1989, 330- 4). Arafat and Morgan in particular emphasize that “ceramic iconography drew upon a common pool of mythology to present themes of relevance especially to leading individuals in their role as citizens of the state” (334). Arafat and Morgan recognize that while pottery may not be the most expensive medium for artistic expression, it was no “minor” art and still portrayed elite themes and ideologies that were then disseminated throughout the community. Because of such upper-class connections, one should be cautious when considering the extent of lower-class influence on the artistic output of painted pottery. 85 Gabrielsen 1994, 35, 105-69; van Wees (1995, 159). See [Ath. Pol. 22.7], which suggests that even though state funds were utilized for the construction of a considerable number of ships before the battle of Salamis, these funds were still placed under the control of the one hundred wealthiest members of the society. According to this account, the people were not informed of the use of this money (οὐ λέγων ὅ τι χρήσεται τοῖς χρήµασιν), but yet signed it over willingly (λαβὼν δ’ ἐπὶ τούτοις ἐναυπηγήσατο τριήρεις ἑκατόν). The elites, in turn, used the state funds to construct the ships. Under such a model, the elite maintained the ostensible responsibility for the naval defense of the polis, a responsibility that they had privately possessed in the generations before the democracy. 86 Gabrielsen 1994, 36, 214-5. Josiah Ober (1989, 326) has also highlighted the important link between elite contribution and their possession of preeminent political positions. He notes that “the orator’s elite status also facilitated his assumption of a more direct role in the government of the state. His demonstration that his superiority was directly linked to the public interest legitimated his claim to a position of leadership which might well appear anti-democratic in other circumstances.” 48 recognitions—of [their] being not only the backbone of the navy but also one of the pillars of Athenian society at large.”87

And yet, despite Gabrielsen’s assertion that the elite claimed recognition for their prominent, and indispensible, role in the successful operation of the Athenian navy, ship iconography was not a desired motif in the vase painting of the 5th century, even when the navy was establishing the imperial power of Athens. Richard Neer has argued that the elite still desired a close relation with the newly established military might of the

Athenian navy, but that ship images were avoided by the wealthy due to their association with the “riff-raff and low-class laborers” who rowed in the navy. Nevertheless, he argues, the elite celebrated their own contributions to the navy through disguised images that highlighted naval victory without the depiction of ships proper.88 Scenes such as

Theseus greeting his father Poseidon (fig. 32), which began to appear on red-figure vases during the first third of the 5th century, are consequently seen by many scholars as an expression of Athenian naval power without the depiction of ships at sea.89 The well- known column krater by the Harrow Painter in the Sackler Museum, for example, depicts the Athenian hero Theseus as he grasps hands with Poseidon (fig. 33).90 Amphitrite stands to the right and crowns Theseus, and Poseidon is followed by two figures that have been identified as Nereus and Neried, whose presence locates the scene in Poseidon’s

87 Gabrielsen 1994, 217. 88 Neer 2002, 162-3. 89 Neer 2002, 162; Neils 1987, 79; Mannack 1995, 109; Brommer 1982, 82-3; Heimberg 1968, 53. The story is recorded in Ode 17 of Bacchylides, which was also produced in the first third of the 5th century; nevertheless, the story was known as early as the late Archaic period (Shapiro 1994, 117; Mannack 1995, 109). 90 Cambridge, Massachusettes, Sackler Museum 1960.339: ARV2 274.39 (with bibliography) and Add2 207. 49 palace under the sea.91 J. J. Pollitt has noted that Athenian viewers of such vases would have “thought of them as symbols of the new power of post-war, democratic Athens

(Theseus) firmly supported by its source, the fleet and the sea (Poseidon),” and for this reason, the emergence of these scenes has commonly been linked to the Athenian victory at Salamis in 480 or the establishment of the Delian League in 478.92 While such a precise historical relationship is difficult to discern, scenes of Theseus and Poseidon do seem to serve as an “emblem celebrating Athens’ mastery of the sea.”93 Such scenes are consequently seen by Neer as a link between the elite and the Athenian navy, which is given divine mandate through the presence of Poseidon with his son, the heroic symbol of the city of Athens.94

The near contemporary, and equally rapid, emergence of Boreas, the north wind, in the iconography of Athenian vases has likewise been linked to an elite interest in celebrating naval themes without the direct portrayal of marine warfare or ship imagery

(fig. 34).95 Boreas, in a manner similar to Poseidon, had acquired particular significance in Athens following the Persian Wars, as the god was credited with the disruption of the

91 Pollitt 1987, 11-2; Shapiro 1994, 121. 92 Pollitt 1987, 11. For this iconography’s possible link to Salamis or the Delian League, see Shapiro 1994, 121; Shapiro 1992, 39; Shapiro 1982, 294; Neer 2002, 162; Neils 1987, 150; and Tausend 1989, 229. While the limits of pottery dating do not allow a conclusive link between such iconography and a specific historical event, as Ursula Heimberg (1968, 58) has noted, it is difficult to dissociate the sudden appearance of Poseidon in such images from Athens’ heightened economic and military reliance upon its fleet. 93 Shapiro 1992, 40. 94 Neer 2002, 162. 95 Neer 2002, 164. J. J. Pollitt (1987, 14) has remarked on the abrupt appearance of Boreas in the iconography of Athenian pottery. He has noted, “In Attic vase painting of the Archaic period, both black- figure and red-figure, there are no representations of Boreas at all. Then, suddenly, in the Early Classical period, one finds thirty-five examples among the works of identified painters, including works by some of the best artists of the time.” Walter Agard (1965, 241) has also noted this trend and adds that such iconography “occurs on vases of almost every type.” See also Shapiro 1982, 18 and Simon 1967, 111-2. 50 Persian fleet at Mt. Athos in 493 as well as at Artemision in 480.96 In the years following these events, Boreas began to appear prominently on Attic vases, most commonly in pursuit of Oreithyia, the daughter of the Athenian Erecters. Such a scene appears on a hydria in the Basel Antikenmuseum that is attributed to the Niobid painter (fig. 35).97 On this vase, the winged Boreas, the recent savior of the Athenian fleet, chases after the

Athenian princess Oreithyia. While the vase depicts only the pursuit, it is known that the god will eventually marry the princess and so become the “son-in-law (γαµβρός) of the

Athenians.”98 Boreas’ relationship to the Athenians, which is emphasized in this particular scene by the presence of Athena, is seen as the cause of his concern for the

Athenian navy and so reinforces the connection between the god, the fleet, and the city.

As J. J. Pollitt has shown, “Boreas…has become a virtual personification, an embodiment of the force that powered Athens’s growing maritime supremacy.”99 Just as with

Poseidon, the power of the navy and so the city is given divine mandate through the presence of the god Boreas with Oreithyia, the daughter of an Athenian king (fig. 36).

Once again Neer has seen such images as an indication that the elite, rather than distancing themselves from the navy, had embraced and proudly displayed their integral

96 Hdt. 7.189; Paus. 1.19.6. Walter Agard (1966, 245-6) has suggested that Boreas was also significant at this time due to a heightened Athenian interest in Thrace, the birthplace of the wind. He argues that Boreas became prominent not only because of his role in the wars against the Persians, but also due to Athenian interest in Thrace’s strategical importance on the trade route to the Black Sea and its impact on Athenian grain, lumber, and mineral supplies. 97 Basel, Basel Antikenmus BS 1906.296: ARV2 606.67 (with bibliography); LIMC “Boreas” no. 55 (with brief bibliography). 98 Hdt. 7.189: “…οἱ Ἀθηναῖοι, ὡς φάτις ὅρµηται, συµβαλλόµενοί σφι τὸν Βορέην γαµβρὸν εἶναι.” See also Pollitt 1987, 13-4 and Simon 1967, 107. 99 Pollitt 1987, 14. 51 role in the thalassocracy of the polis without embracing the portrayal of strictly naval iconography.

His assertion, on the other hand, that the elites had to disguise this interest is problematic. While ship imagery may have fallen out of use on private vessels such as the sympotic vases which form the basis of Neer’s study, this does not preclude a complete absence of naval iconography from the Athenian imaginary. As Barry Strauss has noted, references to ships and seafaring are remarkably few in the private works that have survived from antiquity, yet “one might have expected to see more such references in public art and oratory.”100 Given Athenian reliance on their navy for political and economic dominance, the disappearance of naval iconography from private artifacts is startling, but the imputed absence of public recognition for this power is almost unimaginable. Even so, Strauss does not pursue the idea that the navy may have occupied an integral position in the public works of the city.101 It is the goal of the following chapter to pursue the idea that naval imagery permeated the public works and spaces of Athens, expressing a distinct naval ideology to the entire community, both the commoners and the elite.

As David Pritchard has noted, the Athenian imaginary would not have been formed or manipulated solely in the private works of its citizens, but also, and

100 Strauss 1996, 321. See also Straus 2000, 266. 101 Strauss 2000, 266 and 275-6. Strauss has rightly recognized that “the very existence of the Long Walls, the very existence of the Piraeus as a bustling seaport, the ship sheds, the naval arsenal, and the ships themselves…all this served as a visual monument to Athenian sea power. If the ‘monument’ was not meant to celebrate oarsmen specifically, yet it could be read that way.” Strauss touches on a very important concept here, yet he does not pursue this idea in detail. It is with this notion of the ‘monumental’ that the next section of this chapter will be concerned. 52 predominantly, through public commemoration and representation.102 The polis’ identity was formed in part, therefore, through the public celebration of a key figure in its military dominance, namely, the navy. Despite the heightened prominence of the navy during this period, however, and the important role of public commemoration as a defining aspect of polis imaginary, because of their reliance on a single class of evidence, neither Neer nor

Strauss seriously consider the possibility that naval imagery occupied a significant position in the visual landscape of fifth century Athens. The iconography of vase painting, on which Neer concentrates, does indeed shift away from ship imagery in the 5th century, but, whatever the reasons for this shift, the navy does not disappear from the material culture of Classical Athens. In the following chapter, I will propose that naval imagery maintained a prominent position in the public monuments, buildings, and rituals of the polis, despite its virtual disappearance from the private works of the vase painters.

102 Pritchard 1998, 40. 53 Chapter 3: “The Many Things Fit to be Seen:” The Navy and the Visual Landscape of 5th-century Athens

Synopsis:

In the previous chapter, I addressed the virtual disappearance of ship imagery in the vase painting of the 5th century and argued that this shift in iconography was not the product of an elite, or even communal, disdain for the fleet. Vase painting was not the only medium through which Athens could, and did, express its naval identity. In this chapter, I discuss the considerable impact that the navy had on the very physicality of the city of Athens during the Classical period, an impact that has been largely overlooked. I suggest that the visual landscape of the city was dramatically transformed by buildings and monuments that positively and prominently projected the city’s naval identity. I begin with monuments that were erected to celebrate naval victories or commemorate

Athenian war dead – monuments such as the trophy at Salamis and the Persian War epigrams now in the Agora museum. I then turn to the construction of the ship-sheds and

Long Walls. I argue that these buildings, which were integrally tied to the navy, would have served as visual reminders of the city’s naval identity and the wealth and prosperity the fleet ensured for the city. Finally, I turn to the presence of the navy in the sanctuaries and rituals of the city. By focusing on such monuments and buildings, I argue that the navy maintained a positive position in Athenian communal identity that was reinforced by the transformation of the visual landscape of the city.

54 By the end of the 6th century, warfare in Athens, and throughout Greece, had taken on a new significance and scale. No longer the Archaic warfare that Victor Davis

Hanson has described as “a single battle between farmers, on farmland, often over farmland,” Classical battle concentrated less on seasonal border skirmishes and more on collective, long-term territorial and political battles.1 As Hans van Wees has noted,

“Classical battle, by contrast [to earlier periods], concentrated purely on the honour and glory of the community.”2 The idea of communal, rather than individual, glory changed the way in which soldiers were represented and commemorated in early 5th century

Athens, especially given the city’s contributions at Marathon and Salamis. Alongside public works financed in part by spoils of war and allied tributes, new monuments celebrating Athenian casualties and victories began to be erected throughout the city.

Here I propose that such public and visible commemorations would have significantly altered the visual landscape of the city and served as a constant reminder of its newly acquired military and political identity.

The impact of such monumentalization on the urban image of the city of Athens should not be underestimated, nor should its importance be discounted by discussions limited to literary accounts or private artistic representation. In her discussion of

Augustan Rome, Diane Favro has shown that “ancient buildings and urban environments provided enduring and highly visible frameworks for conveying information.”3

Buildings and monuments, she argues, could express clear ideas of state glorification,

1 Hanson 1996, 290. See also Raaflaub 1999, 134-5; 1997, 53. 2 Van Wees 2004, 240. 3 Favro 1996, 11. 55 political identity, and civic pride to citizens and residents of every status and class.4

While ship imagery may have fallen out of use in the vase paintings of the 5th century, the navy came to occupy an increasingly prominent position in the public display of Classical

Athens, as I will show. Such displays visibly transformed the physical makeup of the city and served as a pronounced reminder of the increased wealth and power of the polis, a wealth and power largely created and maintained through the city’s naval dominance.

In such a way, I contend, the navy secured a prominent position in the public imaginary through its association with large-scale monuments and buildings. As Favro has argued, such commemorations would have had a powerful effect, as “the populace assumed a proprietary relationship to all buildings within [a] city, and to their encoded messages.”5

Part 3.1: “The Aretê of These Men:” The Fleet and Rowers in Monuments of War

Hans van Wees has argued that “it was only when Athens moved towards a more and more democratic regime from the late 460s BC onwards that the vital role of the rowers began to be acknowledged;”6 yet, as early as the battle of Salamis, trophies were erected in recognition of important naval victories. In his account of the days following the defeat of the Persians at Salamis, Herodotus relates that the Greeks gathered plunder

4 Favro 1996, 7. See also Elsner (1995, 125), who suggests that architecture and art “share the strategy of inscribing the beholder into a complex social context, into a subjectivity which is – whether broadly or exclusively – shared with other members of the culture.” 5 Favro 1996, 10. 6 Van Wees 2004, 82. Van Wees argues that such acknowledgement was only possible after a considerable democratization of politics had occurred as a result of the Athenians’ acquisition of empire. This empire, he argues, led to the improved material circumstances of the lower classes and their eventual acceptance as militarily important members of society. Such a theory is troubling, however, not least because the lower classes were not the only members of the polis involved in naval campaigns. 56 to offer to the gods as thanks for the victory. Included amongst these spoils were three

Phoenician ships, one of which was set up at the Isthmus, another that was taken to

Sounion, and the third of which was dedicated to Ajax on Salamis.7 In their capacity as immediate offerings of thanks to a deity, such trophies (tropaia) served primarily as ephemeral and temporary acknowledgements of military victory:8 as Herodotus notes, only the trireme dedicated at the Isthmus was still visible in his own day. But, it appears that a more permanent monument was erected on one of the promontories of Salamis as early as the middle of the 5th century.9 Plato and Xenophon make reference to a trophy at

Salamis and this monument, although it was not likely to have been the original ship dedicated after the battle, still stood on the island during Pausanias’ visit in the 2nd century CE.10

Little evidence remains today of any such monument, yet James Stuart and

Nicholas Revett, in their early travels to Salamis, observed the ruins of an ancient column on the island, which they identified as the remains of the trophy erected to commemorate the battle.11 In a later account, William Leake noted that a prominent cape at the eastern entrance of the strait was known in antiquity as Cape Tropaia “because the trophy erected to the immortal victory of Salamis was there erected.”12 While Leake did not record the

7 Hdt. 8.121. The practice of dedicating a ship to commemorate a naval victory remained a common practice in the generations following the battle at Salamis. See, for example, Thuc. 2.84. 8 West 1969, 11-12; van Wees 2004, 136-8; Pritchett 1974, 250, 254-60; Picard 1957, 16-7. 9 Wallace 1969, 299-302; West 1969, 15-7. 10 Pl. Menex, 245a; Xen. An. 3.2.13; Paus. 1.36.1. 11 Stuart and Revett 1762, ix L, 4. For additional accounts of the remains of this monument in the diaries of early travelers, see Wallace 1969, 299-300. 12 Leake 1841, 170-1. Leake cites an excerpt from Timoxenus (recorded by a scholiast of Aeschylus’ Persians), which ascribes the name Tropaia to the promontory. 57 survival of any remains on the site, in the late 1960’s, Paul Wallace identified a series of cuttings in the bedrock of the promontory of Kynosoura (fig. 37) as the possible location for the monument mentioned by Plato, Xenophon, and Pausanias (fig. 38). These cuttings, which measure approximately 1.80m x 1.70m, appear to have been used as a leveling course intended to accept cut blocks. Wallace observed a single example of a limestone block measuring 1.56m x 0.77m x 0.50m nearby, but it was not preserved in situ and had been badly weathered due to exposure on the promontory (fig. 39-40).13

Despite the damaged condition of these remains, Wallace argued that their prominent position and their relation to the site of the battle were sufficient to identify the cuttings as the foundations for the Salamis trophy.14

While these cuttings give little indication of the form of this monument, William

West has suggested that it would have likely been similar to the permanent monument (of which considerable remains are extant) set up to commemorate the battle at Marathon.15

This monument consisted of a stepped euthynteria with a base constructed of orthostate blocks that supported a large Ionic column and capital, on which once stood a sculpture, perhaps of a Nike or a sphinx (fig. 41).16 While the date of this monument is uncertain,

13 In the summer of 2010, with a permit from the Greek Ministry of Culture, I personally visited the promontory at Kynosoura along with Margaret Miles, Barbara Tsakirgis, and Kristian Lorenzo. We were able to locate and identify the limestone block mentioned by Wallace, but could not clearly identify the cuttings observed by the author. It is unclear whether these cuttings have been lost due to continued weathering from wind and waves, or whether they had been covered by the reinforcement of the breakwater on the promontory. 14 Wallace 1969, 301-2. The site described by Wallace was located on a Naval Stores Depot and so access was restricted. Wallace reports that he and Eugene Vanderpool were granted access to the site, and it is from this visit that his measurements and photographs were obtained. 15 West 1969, 15-6 16 West 1969, 7-8. The most extensive description and treatment of this monument appears in Vanderpool 1966, 96-101. Vanderpool observed the remains of this monument as they were found built into a medieval tower located on the Marathonian plain near the chapel of the Panagia Mesosporitissa. Since his extensive 58 its closest parallels appear to be the Ionic facades of the Athenian stoa at Delphi and the temple of Athena at Sounion, both of which date to the middle of the 5th century.17

Despite the poor state of preservation of the trophy on Salamis, the accounts of early travelers suggest that it may have taken a form similar to the column monument at

Marathon. Stuart and Revett’s description is perhaps the most revealing. They note the remains of an ancient column, which they identified as the trophy erected to commemorate the victory at Salamis, still standing on a promontory of the island. Of particular interest in this account is the two travelers’ assertion that this column was discernable from Athens. Indeed, the island is clearly visible from elevated points in the city (fig. 42), and as Stuart and Revett suggest, the Athenians likely “placed [the monument] on a part of the Island, where those who viewed it from Athens, might see it to the greatest advantage.”18 The conspicuous visibility of the Salamis trophy, as Stuart and Revett saw it, is further highlighted by Wallace in his description of the scant remains at Kynosoura. While only one block of this monument remained on the elevated promontory, Wallace claims that he “could see the block clearly as the boat rounded the cape.”19

treatment, the monument has been removed from the tower and placed in the Marathon museum. A reconstructed version of the trophy has also been erected at the proposed site of its original location. Little remains of the sculpture that once stood atop the column. Apart from a few folds of drapery, nothing of the form is discernable, though comparisons have been drawn between this monument and the Naxian sphinx at Delphi. For a discussion of similar columnar monuments, see Dinsmoor 1950, 143-4. 17 West 1969, 8; Vanderpool 1966, 100. Vanderpool notes that the pointed decoration of the orthostates of the stepped base possibly indicate a date in the 4th century. On account of this, he suggests, “If [the blocks] do not belong with the column monument in its original state they may be part of some later embellishment of it, in the form of a low massive stepped pedestal. Or they may be from a separate and later monument having nothing to do with the column.” 18 Stuart and Revett 1762, ix L, 4. 19 Wallace 1969, 302. 59 The permanence and visibility of the Salamis monument would have carried particular significance to the residents of Classical Athens, who could see the promontory and the trophy from the city. As Tonio Hölscher has emphasized, “monuments [were] designed and erected as signs of power and superiority.” The prominent display of a monument like the trophy at Salamis, “erected as [a sign] of power and superiority,” served to create and strengthen the political and military identity of the Athenians.20 No longer simply an ad hoc dedication to the gods for their part in the victory, the erection of a permanent, public trophy presented the significant achievements of the polis. The monumental recognition of such achievements, as Hölscher has suggested, reflected the

“society’s efforts to develop its identity, decisively and in a very new way, in the public sphere.”21 Through the public and prominent display of this monument, the Athenians could call upon their own achievements at Salamis and lay claim to their role in that victory, a role for which they felt they deserved the lasting gratitude of all of Greece.22

By commemorating the victory at Salamis, the city was able to establish a political identity and social ideology through which it set itself apart from, and above, the rest of the Greeks. At the center of this ideology was the naval power through which Athens was able to exert its hegemony, and the victory at Salamis represented the crowning achievement of that power. Thus, the trophy at Salamis served not only to highlight the

Athenian contribution in the wars against Persia, but it also highlighted the naval character of that victory.

20 Hölscher 1998, 156. 21 Hölscher 1998, 157-8. For the shift from ephemeral to permanent tropaia during the 5th century, see West 1969, 11-4 and Pritchett 1974, 256-9 22 Hölscher 1998, 165; West 1969, 18. 60 The original ship dedication offered after the victory at Salamis was presented to the gods by the Greeks (οἱ Ἕλληνες)23 who participated in the battle, yet by the middle of the 5th century, the Athenians had appropriated this victory as their own, elevating their own contributions to the defense of Greece above those of the other poleis, and most notably above those of Sparta.24 William West has argued that praise for Salamis in particular was used to reinforce the Athenian claim that they alone deserved pan-Hellenic recognition as the defenders and ‘saviors of Greece.’25 West bases this assertion on a series of fragmentary epigrams, each originally part of a single monument, now located in the Agora Museum.26 Only four associated pieces of this monument survive, but they preserve the fragments of at least four epigrams written in no fewer than two hands.27

23 Hdt. 8.121. 24 Evelyn Harrison (1989, 46, 54-5) has seen a similar trend in the changing styles of sculpture during the 5th century. She argues that iconography in Athens became increasingly less Hellenic and more specifically Athenian as confrontation with Sparta became unavoidable and the Persians as a common enemy were pushed to the background. In the iconography of the Parthenon, for example, Harrison notes that the birth of Athena, the contest between Athena and Poseidon, the battles with the Amazons, etc. are shown to take place in Attica and present a specifically Athenian history. The design of the helmet of Pheidias’ Athena Parthenos, according to Harrison, is particularly striking in this regard, as the panhellenic hero Heracles is removed from the scene of the Amazonomachy, which instead depicts the purely Athenian defense of the Acropolis against the Amazons. During the debate with Sparta recorded by Thucydides (1.73.2-74.3), this trend reached its apex, as the Athenians nearly claimed sole responsibility for the expulsion of the Persians and the defense of Greece due to their roles at Marathon and Salamis. See also Hdt. 7.138-9. 25 West 1970, 278. 26 Agora I 303 a-b (formerly EM 6739, Agora I 333). These epigrams have been extensively studied since their discovery. For general introductions to the bibliography, see IG I3 503/4; Meiggs and Lewis 1969, 54-7, no. 26; Hansen 1983, 1-4, no. 2; and Clairmont 1983, 106-11, no. 6a. For additional treatments of the text published after the 1994 edition of Inscriptiones Graecae, see Dillon and Garland 2000, 192-3, no. 7.15, 208-9, n. 7.36; Matthaiou 2000-3; Matthaiou 2003, 198-202; Hansen 1999, 120-1; and Krentz 2007, 739 n. 23. 27 A full-width block of this monument was discovered in 1973 and subsequently published by Matthaiou (1988, 118-20). A small, fourth fragment (Agora I 6963; IG i3 503/504 lapis C) has been attributed to this monument as well by Matthaiou (1988, 118-20). This fragment, first published by Peek (1953, 305-12, n. 1) preserves only a few words of text, but this fragment has been linked to the epigram ending in [έ]βαλον, which appears on IG I3 503/504 lapis C. This attribution has been questioned by Barron (1990, 139 n. 30), who does not believe that the hand is the same on the two blocks. In addition, Barron notes that the smoothed band on which the fragmentary inscription of Agora I 6963 is preserved does not match the dimensions of the other pieces assigned to the base, and so questions its association with the monument. 61 While none of the surviving pieces join one another, the nature of the epigrams, as well as the treatment of the stone, suggest that each of these fragments once belonged to a single base.28 The face of each of these fragments is neatly stippled except for a smoothed border set across their top edge. An additional smoothed band was carved into the stippled area likely sometime after the monument’s original production. Within the border was inscribed a single stoichedon epigram, while additional epigrams were carved into the smooth band within the area of stippling (fig. 43-44). Because of its position on the original border of the stones, the stoichedon epigram (IG I3 503/4 lapis A.1) is considered to be the earliest of the group and is dated to sometime shortly after 480.29

This inscription, though fragmentary, clearly commemorates the courage of a group of men, who fought for the safety and protection of all of Greece:

ἀνδρν τνδ’ ἀρετε[ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ 9 ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ος ἄφθιτον] αἰεί· [ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ]ν[ ̣ ]ρ[ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ νέµοσι θεοί·] ⏐ 8 9 ἔσχον γὰρ πεζοί τε [ καὶ ὀκυπόρον ἐπὶ νε]ν· hελλά[δα µ]ὲ πᾶσαν δούλιο[ν µαρ ἰδν·].

The aretê of these men [ imperishable] forever. [ ] [ ] [ the gods deal out.] For they, both as foot-soldiers [and in quick-going ships,] prevented All Greece from [seeing the day] of slavery.

Barron’s objections are indeed important, yet for the purpose of this study, the inclusion or exclusion of this small fragment does not pose a particular problem, and so I will maintain the emendations of IG i3 and the conclusions of Matthaiou. 28 In addition to the description that follows, which is based on my own examination of the remaining pieces of the epigram in the Agora Museum in 2009, descriptions of the surviving stones can be found in Peek 1953, 305-12, n. 1; Barron 1990, 133-6; Meiggs and Lewis 1969, 54-5, n. 26; and Matthaiou 118-20. 29 The stoichedon inscription has been linked to the same individual who carved IG I3 4, a decree from 485/4 that refers to regulations for the Acropolis. For this attribution, see Barron 1990, 133-4; Meiggs and Lewis 1969, 54, n. 26; and Raubitschek 1949, 150. Raubitschek suggests that IG I3 4 and the stoichedon inscription are by the same carver and dates IG I3 503/4 to around 489. Barron, while recognizing the same carver at work, prefers a date sometime shortly after 480. Meiggs and Lewis also recognize the same hand in IG I3 4 and IG I3 503/4, but they acknowledge that the exact date of the epigrams is still a point of contention. 62 The additional fragmentary inscriptions, which appear to belong to at least three separate epigrams, were inscribed in non-stoichedon pattern within the smoothed band added to the stippling along the face of the monument’s base. Because this band is thought to have been added after the original erection of the monument, these epigrams are considered to be later than the stoichedon text, and so are dated to the decade between

480 and 470.30

The text on one of these fragments (IG i3 503/4 lapis B) is too poorly preserved to be convincingly restored, but enough can be read to suggest that it once commemorated a group of men serving in battle as foot-soldiers ([πε]ζοί). That [πε]ζοί is followed by a clear τε καὶ may suggest the inclusion of a second type of soldier, but no emendation has yet been presented to fill the lacuna. A second epigram (IG I3 503/4 lapis C), which is better preserved, refers to a calf-nourishing mainland (ἀπείρο πορτιτρόφο), emphasizes happiness (ὄλβος) and abundance (οὖθαρ), and makes mention of Pallas (Παλλάδος).

While a substantial portion of this epigram remains, it is difficult to say with any certainty to what it refers; nevertheless, one could easily postulate praise for Greece or

Athens. The fragments on which these epigrams survive preserve nothing of the original border around the base, and so it is unclear whether the stoichedon inscription would have continued above these lines. The final extant epigram on these fragments (IG i3

503/4 lapis A.2) is preserved on the smoothed band below the original stoichedon inscription mentioned above. This inscription is of particular interest to the present study due to its clear mention of battle against the Persians and its praise for a group of men who battled in front of the gates:

30 Meiggs and Lewis 1969, 54-5, n. 26. 63 ν ἄρα τοῖσζ’ ἀδαµ̣[α υυ – υυ – υ] ḥότ’ αἰχµὲν στσαµ πρόσθε πυλν ἀν̣ [υυ – υυ – ] ἀνχίαλοµ πρσαι ρ̣ [υυ – υυ – υυ – υ] ἄστυ βίαι Περσν κλινάµενο[ι υυ – ]

Indeed those men had an adamant [ ] when the spear Was set before the gates [ ] To burn the [ ] by the sea [ ] City [ ]

The mention of the Persians (Περσν) in the last line of this text has led to the commonly held assertion that this monument was set up to commemorate the city’s contributions in the wars against Persia.31 While this connection seems apparent, it is not clear to which battles or events these various epigrams specifically refer.

As mentioned above, William West has viewed the original stoichedon inscription as a commemoration of the victory at Salamis, based largely on the emendation [ καὶ

ὀκυπόρον ἐπὶ νε]ν and the phrase hελλά[δα µ]ὲ πᾶσαν.32 The reference to the quick-

31 Ove Hansen (1999, 121) has objected to this assertion and notes that “nothing of the preserved parts of [the stoichedon epigram] has any mention about the Persian Wars.” Because of this, Hansen argues that the monument was originally set up to commemorate the war between Athens and Boeotia and Chalkis around 506. She suggests that the Persian War inscriptions were added to the monument after the Athenian victory and perhaps utilized the end of the Boeotian epigram as a sort of “headline.” While Hansen’s observations of the stoichedon inscription are correct, she does not offer any comparanda for a single monument commemorating two separate wars, and her theory has not been commonly accepted in subsequent scholarship. 32 The restoration [ καὶ ὀκυπόρον ἐπὶ νε]ν was first proposed by Hiller (1934, 204-5, n. 1), who uses an excerpt from the Greek Anthology (7.258, identified as Simonides) as the basis for his reconstruction. Hiller’s emendation gained support after Meritt’s (1956, 269-71) discussion of Agora I 4256. Meritt suggested that Agora I 4526 once bore the same full text as the stoichedon epigram on IG I3 503/4. On these grounds, Meritt argued that the fragment Agora I 4526, which has been dated by Stephen Tracy (2000-3, 141-2) to the late 3rd century, supported the emendation proposed by Hiller. Although this restoration has been commonly accepted in subsequent editions of the epigram, the reconstruction has been recently questioned by Angelos Matthaiou (2000-3, 145-147). Matthaiou suggests that Agora I 4526 was actually a private monument and was likely not a copy of the earlier 5th century epigrams. In support of this, Matthaiou notes his reading of a Σ after the lacuna in the first line of IG I3 503/4 lapis A. If this reading is correct, Agora I 4526 would fail to support the restoration [ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ 9 ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ος ἄφθιτον] αἰεί because the Σ is unaccounted for, and Agora I 4526 cannot be used to restore [ καὶ ὀκυπόρον ἐπὶ νε]ν; nevertheless, this does not necessarily exclude Hiller’s reconstruction based on the Greek Anthology. While Matthaiou calls Meritt’s arguments into question, the addition of the quick-going ships cannot be excluded outright. 64 going ships, as West notes, implies a naval battle, for which Salamis is the most likely candidate.33 In addition, he contends that the claim to have saved “all Greece”

(hελλά[δα µ]ὲ πᾶσαν), which is partially preserved in the last line of this epigram, was commonly used in reference to the battle of Salamis in the 5th century.34 While such a claim eventually came to be associated with the victory at Marathon in the speeches of the 4th century orators, there is little evidence to suggest that Marathon was viewed in this way when the monument was constructed.35 John Barron, following similar logic, has also linked this epigram to the victory at Salamis and suggests that the phrase πεζοί τε

[καὶ ὀκυπόρον ἐπὶ νε]ν not only commemorates the victory at sea, but also the hoplite engagement at Psyttaleia, where the foot soldiers would have played a significant role.36

In addition, Barron argues that the later epigrams should likewise be attributed to the victory at Salamis.37 He calls particular attention to the last line of the epigram, which reads ἄστυ βίαι Περσν κλινάµενο[ι υυ – ]. This line is commonly translated “turning bac[k] by force the Persian [- - -].”38 The use of the participle κλινάµενο[ι] in the middle or passive, however, makes such a translation difficult to justify, and an alternative translation could read “those men having been laid low by the force of the Persians.” If this were the case, then the epigram would not refer to an Athenian victory at Marathon,

33 West 1970, 272-3. West was not the first to make this connection, see in addition Amandry (1960, 1-8); Pritchett (1960, 160-8); and Barron (1990, 138-40). 34 See Hdt. 7.138-44 and Thuc. 1.73-4. Herodotus (7.139) in particular argues that one would not be wrong to say that the Athenians saved Greece because of their decision to control the sea (νῦν δὲ Ἀθηναίους ἄν τις λέγων σωτῆρας γενέσθαι τῆς Ἑλλάδος οὐκ ἂν ἁµαρτάνοι τἀληθέος). 35 West 1970, 278-80. 36 Barron 1990, 137-8. 37 Barron 1990, 138-40. 38 Dillon and Garland 2000, 192-3 n. 7.15. 65 but might instead commemorate the men who stayed in Athens to defend the Acropolis shortly before the battle at Salamis.39 As Barron has suggested, “If [the monument] was for a single battle, the only really likely occasion is Salamis, the contemporary view of which gave great prominence to Aristides’ infantry engagement on Psyttaleia as well as to Themistocles’ naval battle itself.”40 Such a view is mirrored in the nearly contemporary account of the battle given by Aeschylus in his Persians and reflects an

Athenian desire to develop their own social and political identity through the commemoration of their achievements.

If these epigrams do commemorate the Athenian victory at Salamis, then they reflect the prominent position that the fleet held in the public imaginary of Athens, even in the earliest stages of the city’s naval power. Because of the substantial breaks in the surviving texts, it is not likely that the lacunae will ever be fully restored with absolute certainty, and the exact nature of the commemoration remains a point of some contention.

Angelos Matthaiou’s recent questioning of the commonly accepted restorations of the stoichedon inscription on the monument illustrates this point.41 Matthaiou has convincingly demonstrated that these restorations cannot be accepted with absolute certainty, and for this reason the inclusion of [ καὶ ὀκυπόρον ἐπὶ νε]ν may be misleading; although, Matthaiou cannot exclude this particular restoration with any more certainty than West and Barron maintain it. In addition, the inclusion of ships in the

39 See Hdt. 8.49-55 for an account of the men, who defended the Acropolis against the Persians. 40 Barron 1990, 138. As Meiggs and Lewis have noted (1969, 56 n. 26), “One would naturally expect two epigrams on the same stone to refer to the same thing.” If Barron and West are correct in identifying the original epigram as a commemoration for the victory at Salamis, common epigraphic practice would add addition credence to the claim that the later inscription praises that battle as well. 41 Matthaiou 2000-3, 145-7. 66 restored epigrams has not been universally accepted as a clear indication of the battle at

Salamis. As John Molyneux nicely summarizes, these epigrams have been seen as celebrating Marathon, Salamis with Psytalleia, Salamis and Plataia, Salamis and

Thermopylai, Phaleron, and even all of the battles between 490 and 479.42 While the exact event to which these epigrams refer remains uncertain, the possibility that they may have mentioned and commemorated Athenian naval activities is striking, particularly given that the form of the monument, described in the following paragraphs, suggests that these epigrams appeared on the base of a casualty list.

Not until the last quarter of the 20th century could the monument on which these epigrams are preserved be reconstructed with any certainty. Only two small fragments of the base were known until the discovery of a substantial third block in 1973. The first of these fragments (Agora I 303b, formerly EM 6739) was found in 1855 in the foundations of a modern house on Odos Adrianou near the Acropolis (fig. 43). A second fragment

(Agora I 303a) was uncovered in 1932, having been incorporated into a house located in the Agora itself (fig. 44).43 These two pieces, while preserving fragments of the same two epigrams (IG I3 503/4 lapis A.1-2), did not join and only preserved the front part of the base (fig. 45). While the exact depth of the base could not be reconstructed from these pieces, a small cutting along the top of one of them suggested that the base once supported a stele or a herm (fig. 46).44 The discovery of a third piece of this base in 1973

42 Molyneux 1992, 149. To this list can be added Ove Hansen’s claim that the epigrams commemorate a war between Athens and Boeotia and Chalkis (supra n. 112). 43 Oliver 1933, 480-94. 44 For early interpretations of this cutting, see Meritt 1956, 274-5; Raubitschek 1940, 56-8; Pritchett 1960, 162-3; and Harrison 1965, 114 n. 57. 67 has made possible a more accurate reconstruction of the monument’s original form.45

Built into the retaining wall of the ancient road that led from the Kerameikos to the

Academy, the stone had survived largely unscathed, and so the full length and width of the block was preserved (fig. 46). The anathyrosis on both sides of the stone indicate that it would have been joined at both the left and the right by additional blocks. Cuttings atop this block support such a reconstruction and appear to have been designed to receive multiple stelai, rather than herms as had been previously suggested.46 Angelos Matthaiou has used this information to reconstruct the monument, which originally consisted of a base of at least four such blocks supporting no fewer than three separate stelai (fig. 47).47

The proposed form of this base, the discovery of the third block in the area commonly associated with the demosion sêma, and the requirement of a point of reference for the unidentified men (τνδ’ and τοῖσζ’) mentioned in the epigrams, indicate that this monument once commemorated soldiers who had died during battle and whose names were recorded upon the series of stelai.48

45 The original discovery of this block was mentioned briefly by Alexandri (1973-4, 91-2); however, a detailed description of the piece did not appear until 15 years later when it was rediscovered and published by Matthaiou (1988, 118-20). The block measures 1.313m in length and 0.478m in width. The full height of the block is not preserved, though the surviving piece ranges between 0.175-0.180 m in height. 46 Matthaiou 1988, 118-20; Barron 1990, 134-6. The cutting on this new block is set back 0.17m from its face and measures 0.34m x 0.20m. Because this cutting is considered to be the counterpart of an equal cutting on the adjacent stone, the width of the stelai can be conjectured to have been 0.68m. 47 Matthaiou 1988, 118-20. 48 Matthaiou 1988, 118-20; Barron 1990, 135-6; Matthaiou 2003, 197-202. Barron has noted that this reconstruction is atypical for a casualty list, which usually consisted of a series of stelai placed side-by-side in a single continuous cutting. While problematic, the unique form of this monument could be due to its early date, and too few complete casualty lists survive to determine a consistent, formalized typology for their construction. In addition, as Barron notes, the inscriptions on later casualty lists, while commonly on abutting stelai, were arranged and separated by tribe as though on separate stelai. For a general discussion of the form of the surviving casualty lists, see Bradeen 1969, 146-7 and Clairmont 1983, 47. 68 While the earliest, securely identified example of a surviving Athenian casualty list has been dated to the mid-460s, Christoph Clairmont has convincingly shown that communal burial and commemoration, perhaps even at state expense, may have been practiced as early as the late 6th century.49 While we do not know the exact form such monuments took or indeed if there was a standard format, it is clear that the city had become interested in the visible and permanent commemoration of its military accomplishments as early as the construction of the mound at Marathon. The stele monument proposed by Matthaiou would have likewise stood as a prominent memorial to the contribution of the Athenians during the Persian Wars; yet, if the epigrams on the base of this monument, which were discussed above, commemorate the victory at

Salamis, or at least naval as well as infantry participation, then the commonly held assertion that the rowers were not recognized on such lists must be called into question.50

The casualty lists have traditionally been viewed as monuments erected to memorialize the hoplites mustered from each deme to fight for the polis. Antony Raubitschek, for example, has argued, “it can be assumed that only [the hoplites] were mentioned in the casualty lists,” an assumption he reaches through the reconstruction of fragmentary

49 Clairmont 1983, 7-15, 87-94. While Clairmont recognizes the existence of communal burials for the war dead as early as 506 BCE, he does not believe that the monuments were erected as part of a state-run ceremony commemorating the dead of the Athenian polis, the so-called patrios nomos. While this may be the case, the suggestion that the city may have commemorated its war dead on state-commissioned, public monuments before the Persian Wars is more relevant to the current discussion and to Matthaiou’s designation of the Persian War epigrams as part of a casualty list. 50 As mentioned above (n. 40), the commemoration of more than one battle on a single monument would be surprising; nevertheless, scholars continue to attribute these Persian War epigrams to numerous battles. Since the naval battle at Salamis was accompanied by a hoplite campaign on Psyttaleia, however, it is not unreasonable to suggest that the epigrams commemorated both actions. For the assertion that the thetic rowers were excluded from these lists, see Hurwit 2007, 40; Strauss 1996, 313; Hanson 1996, 306; Mattingly 1966, 191; Raubitschek 1943, 48 n. 102; and Ridley 1979, 513. Kurt Raaflaub (1996, 156) notes that it cannot be said with any certainty that the rowers were excluded, though he notes that the hoplites seemed to have maintained greater prominence in such commemorations. 69 casualty lists and Thucydidean accounts of hoplite conscription.51 The absence of naval iconography on the grave stelai, monuments, and vase paintings of the 5th century has been seen as confirmation of this conclusion. Considered alongside the prominent display of hoplites and cavalry on public and private monuments, this absence has been seen as the implied exclusion of rowers from state commemoration.52

Examination of the surviving casualty lists, however, shows that there is little reason to suppose that crews and rowers serving in the fleet were excluded. No sculptural relief has been securely linked to a state casualty list, and nothing about the list of deceased soldiers indicates that rowers were not commemorated alongside the hoplites and cavalrymen. Indeed, the work of Donald Bradeen has convincingly shown that non- hoplites, including archers, metics, and even foreigners, were included on the casualty lists, and while no rowers are specifically mentioned, he has seen no reason to believe that the oarsmen would have been excluded.53 Specific indications of title or rank are relatively uncommon on the casualty lists, and it should be noted that hoplites are very rarely identified as such.54 Names are typically inscribed with neither patronymic nor demotic, and men are distinguished simply by their tribal affiliations;55 nevertheless, a

51 Raubitschek 1943, 48 n. 102. See also Mattingly 1966, 191. 52 Hurwit 2007, 40; Pritchard 1998, 49. See, however, Stupperich, (1994, 97) who argues, “It is interesting to note that the navy, despite its importance for Athenian democracy, does not play a role in the iconography of the state burial. Rowers and marines were closely linked to the new democracy; yet, there was no tradition of their representation in funerary art. The traditional formulae inherited by the early democracy may well have been felt to be sufficient. Both trierarchs and thetes may well have thought it much more imposing and desireable to have a victorious aristocratic or heroic horsemen as the symbol on their tombs rather than a ship on which they had been continuously rowing.” 53 Bradeen 1969, 148-54; Bradeen 1964, 43-55. See all Strauss 2000 261-2; Raaflaub 1996, 155-6; and Loraux 1986, 34, 361 n. 128. 54 Clairmont 1983, 52. 55 Loraux 1986, 35-6; Bradeen 1969, 146-50. 70 number of titles preserved on the surviving lists indicate that members of the fleet, including trierarchs, naval archons, and even helmsmen, were included amongst the casualties honored on the monuments.56 While they are not oarsmen, the inclusion of these men indicates that naval service was recognized alongside hoplite and cavalry participation.57 The importance of such naval commemoration in Athens is made even more apparent when one recalls that the generals at Arginousai were executed due to their failure to retrieve their shipwrecked comrades after the battle.58 In addition, Pausanias’ account of the numerous monuments to the Athenian war dead begins with a memorial dedicated to all the Athenians who died in battles both on land and at sea (ἔστι δὲ καὶ πᾶσι µνῆµα Ἀθηναίοις ὁπόσοις ἀποθανεῖν συνὲπεσεν ἔν τε ναυµαχίαις καὶ ἐν µάχαις

πεζαῖς), a phrase strikingly similar to that restored in the epigrams discussed above.59 As

Nicole Loraux has simply put it, “Those historians who have tried to exclude the

[oarsmen] from the Kerameikos because their names did not appear on the lexiarchon grammateion have misunderstood the complexity of Athenian military politics and confused ideological preference with democratic principle.”60

56 Clairmont 1983, 51-2; Bradeen 1964, 43-55. 57 Loraux (1986, 34) has pointed out that the inclusion of members of the navy on public monuments should not at all come as a surprise, “But, over and above hierarchical refinements, the main point is that the city buried the archers in the demosion sema. No doubt it did as much for the other thetes enrolled in the army, psiloi and oarsmen. Those historians who have tried to exclude the latter from the Kerameikos because their names did not appear on the lexiarchon grammateion have misunderstood the complexity of Athenian military politics and confused ideological preference with democratic principle: if, in their arrangement, the lists followed the model of the hoplitic catalogue, could the democracy have ‘forgotten’ citizens entirely, while honoring barbarians and foreigners with the same burial as ‘Athenians’? There can only be one answer: if no list mentions an oarsman or peltast as such, it is because the metics were included among the Athenaioi listed under the ten tribes.” 58 Xen. Hell. 1.6.24-1.7.35; Diod. Sic. 13.100-2. See also Pritchett 1985, 204-6. 59 Pausanias 1.29.4. 60 Loraux 1986, 34. 71 While the lists themselves give us no reason to assume that oarsmen and ship crews were excluded from state commemorations, the absence of naval iconography on these state monuments remains puzzling. Reinhard Stupperich has noted that the navy appears to play no role in the iconography of state burials, despite its importance to

Athenian military campaigns and hegemony.61 Stupperich’s assertion that state monuments were dominated by hoplite and cavalry iconography, however, is problematic, since it cannot be determined with any certainty whether casualty lists set up by the state for the full complement of hoplites, cavalry, and rowers ever supported sculptural decoration. Stupperich himself admits that only scattered fragments of sculpture survive from the area of the demosion sema, and it is difficult to attribute these remains to specific monuments.62 In addition, no official list of casualties recording the deceased members of the ten tribes has been positively linked to sculptural decoration.63

A monument recently discovered during the metro excavations in Athens preserves a battle scene between cavalrymen and hoplites. At first consideration, the iconography seems to confirm the assertion that casualty lists excluded naval contingents from public commemoration.64 The associated epigram reveals, however, that this monument commemorates cavalrymen exclusively, and not hoplites, and so likely did not mark the communal, state burial of all of the war dead for that particular year. Imagery of this sort

61 Stupperich 1994, 97 (supra n. 133) 62 Stupperich 1994, 93-4. 63 It has been suggested, for example, that the so-called Albani relief is a copy of a relief from such a state monument, yet such a connection remains completely hypothetical and is based on the assumption that such monuments required some form of sculptural decoration. For a consideration of this relief and the problematic character of its attribution to a state monument, see the discussion by Clairmont (1993-5, vol. 2, 289-93, n. 2.131), which highlights the inherent difficulty in linking sculptural remains to casualty lists. 64 Parlama and Stampolidis 2000, 396-9 n. 452. 72 appears to be limited to monuments that exclusively commemorate certain groups of soldiers, rather than to the inclusive state memorials that commemorated the navy as well as the hoplites and cavalrymen.

Stupperich’s confident claim that the “navy…did not play a role in the iconography of state burial,” then, is seriously undermined when distinction between these two types of monuments is made.65 Furthermore, in his account of Athenian war monuments along the demosion sêma, Pausanias makes specific reference to just one figural relief, and it is on a monument dedicated to two horsemen. In each other example, when Pausanias specifically refers to the stones of the monuments, he notes only that the men’s names were recorded. It is also worth note that Pausanias records two separate monuments dedicated specifically to those killed in sea-battles.66 Also tenuous is

Stupperich’s reconstruction of state monuments based on the iconography of private, family tombs; he argues that state monuments required sculptural decoration and that private imagery was an imitation of it.67 Both of these assertions, which are based on little evidence, have contributed to a widespread misperception about the form of the state monuments. Those securely identified state monuments that have survived consist simply of stelai bearing the names of the deceased and an epigram commemorating their sacrifice. What sculptural decoration that survives on these monuments entails, at most, decorative scroll work. Indeed, without the discovery of a complete, communal, and inclusive casualty list bearing sculptural decoration, the inverse of Stupperich’s claim is

65 Stupperich 1994, 97. 66 Paus. 1.29.4-1.29.29. 67 Stupperich 1994, 94-6. 73 true: it cannot be stated with certainty that the rowers and crews who served in the navy were not commemorated on state monuments.

Part 3.2: “The Beauty of Those Things Set Up for the People:” The Ship-Sheds, the Long Walls, and the Public Image of the 5th Century Athenian Navy

Rather than distancing themselves from the rising naval power of the city, I would argue that Athenian citizens celebrated their navy through the erection of casualty lists and war memorials that praised, in addition to hoplite and cavalry service, participation in the fleet. Such monuments reaffirmed and strengthened the military, political, and social identity of the Athenian community through their prominent display and permanent nature.68 These monuments also, I believe, transformed the urban image of the city and served as visual reminders of Athenian power and influence. While the erection of such monuments, which praised the whole community’s military accomplishments, noticeably reshaped the urban environment of 5th century Athens, few projects so dramatically altered the visual landscape of the city as the construction of the ship-sheds, which transformed Piraeus into a symbol of military power. At the end of the Persian War, the

Athenian navy consisted of at least two hundred triremes, a number that had increased to nearly three hundred by the start of the Peloponnesian War.69 The hulls of these ships were fragile – susceptible to rot as well as parasites – and so the Athenians constructed a series of buildings in which triremes could be dry-docked and maintained when not on

68 Hölscher 1998, 157-8. See also Siewart (1992, 3-17), who argues that such monuments would have served to educate Athenian citizens of the past accomplishments of their polis, and so would reinforce their own sense of political and cultural identiy. 69 Hdt. 7.144, 8.44; Thuc. 1.14.1-2, 2.13.8. See also Gabrielsen 1994, 29-31, 126-7. 74 active service.70 By the middle of the 4th century, the ship-sheds numbered 372 in total and dominated the three major harbors of Piraeus, with 82 at Mounichia, 94 at Kantharos, and 196 at Zea.71 While the exact date for the institution of this building program is uncertain, it is likely that the related fortification and development of the Piraeus was begun under the supervision of Themistokles, perhaps as early as 493/2. No later than

483/2, considerable construction had been undertaken at the harbor, and the area continued to be substantially monumentalized in the decades following the Persian sack of the city in 480.72

The considerable number of sheds necessary to house a fleet of two hundred ships would have required a substantial and extensive building program. In order to house the triremes, the ship-sheds were built to a length of at least 37.0 m, while some exceeded

50.5 m, likely for the storage of two ships simultaneously.73 Pairs of ship-sheds shared a single pitched roof, which was supported by rows of unfluted columns carved from local stone and ranging in height from 5.2 m at the eaves to 7.0 m at the ridge. The width between these roof supports measured roughly 5.9 m, and so each roof spanned a width

70 Casson 1971, 363-5; Morrison, Coates, and Rankov 2000, 151-2; Lovén et al 2007, 62. See in addition the reference to ship-worms eating away at a hull mentioned in Aristophanes (Eq. 1300-10). 71 IG i2 1628.481.553 72 Thuc. 1.93; Diod. Sic. 11.41.2-3. See also Gabrielsen 1994, 33-4; Lovén et al 2007, 62; Chambers 1984, 49-50. In his discussion of Thuc. 1.93.3, Chambers outlines the difficulties in ascribing a secure date for the initiation of the Themistoklean building project at Piraeus. The surviving remains of the ship sheds in Piraeus date largely from the 4th century, yet recent excavations in the area have uncovered multiple building phases, including foundations from the 5th century. Bjøern Lovén and the Danish Institute continue to excavate at Zea and Mounichia, and their findings, including evidence for earlier building phases, are reported in recent volumes of Archaeological Reports (2001-2, 13-4; 2002-3, 9-10; 2003-4, 7-8; 2004-5, 9). 73 Lovén et al 2007, 65. 75 of nearly 12.0 m (fig. 48).74 On average then, the total area covered under each roof measured at least 12.0 m by 37.0 m and rose to a height of roughly 7.0 m. To put these dimensions into perspective, the stylobate of the Hephaisteion measured roughly 13.8 m by 31.8 m and the exterior colonnades, including the entablature, rose to just over 7.7 m

(fig. 49).75 That these buildings were seen as part of a significant and monumental transformation of 5th century Athens is perhaps best expressed by Demosthenes in his speech against Androtion. Reflecting upon the city’s desire to showcase its splendor

(δόξα) and love of honor (φιλοτιµία), Demosthenes remarks on “the beauty of those things set up for [the people], such things as the Propylaia, the Parthenon, the stoas, [and] the ship-sheds” (22.76 [Against Androtion]).76 Indeed, the construction of such massive stone buildings would have dramatically altered the urban environment of the city of

Athens. I propose that the ship-sheds, so monumental that they were visible from the city center, served as a symbol of naval power and reinforced the social and military identity of the entire community (fig. 50). Such prominent monuments, as Tonio Hölscher has shown, “represent and create ideological identity…they are the expression of such identity.”77 The ship-sheds became a prominent and permanent symbol of Athenian power and freedom, so much so, in fact, that their destruction during the Peloponnesian

War symbolized the destruction of Athens’ identity as a military power, and their ruins

74 Dragatsis 1885, 63-8; Blackman 1968, 181-6; Casson 1971, 363-4; Morrison, Coates, and Rankov 2000, 132-4; Lovén et al 2007, 62. See also recent reports of the ongoing excavations at Zea and Mounichia, supra n. 72. 75 Weddel 2002, 8-10. 76 …τὰ δὲ τῶν ἀναθηµάτων τῶν ἐπ’ ἐκείνοις σταθέντων τὸ κάλλος, προπύλαια ταῦτα, ὁ παρθενών, στοαί, νεώσοικοι (22.76 [Against Androtion]). For a discussion of the Greek terminology for the ship- sheds, including use of the word νεώσοικος, see Blackman 1968, 181. 77 Hölscher 1998, 156. 76 served as a visible reminder of the Athenian defeat.78 As the middle-comic poet

Philiskos wrote, following the destruction of the ship-sheds, “Piraeus [was] a large nut, and empty,” merely a shell of its former self.79

The powerful impact that the destruction of the ship-sheds had on the citizens of

Athens was compounded by the subsequent sale of their remains under the Thirty

Tyrants. The monumental buildings, which had once cost the Athenians over a thousand talents to construct, were sold for a mere three talents after their destruction.80 These combined events not only crippled the military power of the Athenians, but also, I would argue, challenged the political and social identity of the polis, an identity that was integrally connected to the naval strength of the city. Since such public and visible monuments are a clear representation of polis identity, their destruction would have signified “the annihilation of that identity.”81 This “annihilation” of military identity was also demonstrated emphatically in the dismantling of the Athenian Long Walls at the close of the Peloponnesian War. The monumental construction of these walls, which connected the city of Athens to its harbors at Piraeus, had transformed the visual

78 Isoc. 7.66 [Areopagiticus], Lys. 12.99 [Against Eratosthenes] and 30.22 [Against Nicomachos]. See also Conwell 2008, 105-6; Garland 1987, 96-7; and Eickstedt 1991, 73. See Hölscher (1998, 156) for the idea that the destruction of monuments, which help to form a civic identity, represents an annihilation of that identity. 79 ὁ Πειραιεὺς κάρυον µέγ’ ἐστὶ καὶ κενόν (Kock, 1884, 443, Φίλισκος fragment 2). For the early 4th century date of Philiskos’ comedies, see Nesselrath 1990, 229 n. 140; 1995, 2-4 n. 9. 80 Isoc. 7.66 [Areopagiticus]. See also Reden 1995, 29 and 1998, 185; Amit 1961, 469-70; Lovén et al 2007, 66; and Conwell 2008, 105. 81 Hölscher 1998, 156. See also Bevan (2006, 8) who sees “the destruction of the cultural artefacts of an enemy people or nation as a means of dominating, terrorizing, dividing, or eradicating it altogether.” Bevan (2006, 11) continues, “To lose all that is familiar – the destruction of one’s environment – can mean a disorienting exile from the memories they have invoked. It is the threat of a loss to one’s collective identity and the secure continuity of those identities (even if, in reality, identity is always shifting over time).” 77 landscape of the Attic countryside,82 and like the ship-sheds, the walls served as a constant reminder, to both allies and enemies, of Athenian power and authority. So closely entwined were these fortifications with the idea of Athenian military and political hegemony that their destruction at the hands of the Peloponnesians was said to symbolize the beginning of freedom for all of Greece.83

Likely begun in the years between 461 and 456,84 the construction of the Long

Walls marked a significant shift in Athenian military strategy. As Donald Kagan has noted, the completion of the Long Walls “in effect [turned] Athens into an island unassailable by land and invincible so long as it retained command of the sea.”85 Athens had committed itself to the sea, and the Long Walls stood as a constant and visual reminder of the city’s reliance on its fleet and the men who manned it. Originally designed to protect the city’s connection to its harbors at both Piraeus and Phaleron, the first phase of the Long Walls encompassed nearly 12 square kilometers (c. 4.6 square miles) of the Attic countryside.86 In their earliest phase, the Long Walls consisted of two diverging walls that issued from the southwestern ramparts of the city (fig. 51). The

82 Conwell 2008, 4-19. 83 Xen. Hell. 2.2.23. 84 There is considerable debate over the date of the construction of the Long Walls. Conwell (2008, 48-53) suggests that the walls were begun under Kimon in 462/1, perhaps in response to the Athenian rejection at Mt. Ithome. Dillon and Garland (2000, 237, 8.16) date the Walls’ construction to the period between the battles of Tanagra and Oinophyta in 458/7. Eickstedt (1991, 277) simply posits some time around 460, while Amit argues for a building project inspired by Themistokles, but begun under either Kimon or Perikles between 458 and 456. In his discussion of the impact of fortifications on deme boundaries, Lalonde (2006, 115-6) accepts a date of c. 460. Any determination of an exact date for the initial construction of the Long Walls is problematic, and so the general range of dates between 461 and 456 will be assumed. For a more thorough discussion of the dating of the first phase of the Long Walls, see Conwell 2008, 37-64, esp. 40 n. 9. 85 Kagan 1969, 87. For similar discussions of the Long Walls as a sign of a new direction in Athenian military strategy, see Bagnall 2004, 113; Hanson 1996, 292-3. For the perception of Athens as an island connected to the sea, see the speech of Perikles in Thucydides 1.143. 86 Conwell 2008, 4. 78 northern of the two walls linked the city’s fortifications to the newly built walls surrounding the harbors of Piraeus, while the so-called “Phaleric Wall”87 stretched from the city to the eastern shore of the Bay of Phaleron.88 By the end of the 440’s, the inherent vulnerabilities of defending such a large expanse of countryside had become apparent to the Athenians, and so a third wall was built to strengthen the defense of the city’s link to Piraeus (fig. 52).89 This third wall ran parallel to the northern wall, creating a far more narrow, and defensible corridor between the city proper and the harbors at

Piraeus.90 With the construction of this third wall, Piraeus emerged as the predominant military and commercial port for the city of Athens. The bay at Phaleron, as well as the wall connecting it to the city, became increasingly marginalized, until they were both largely abandoned late in the 5th century.91

These three walls would have dominated the Attic countryside. Stretching roughly six kilometers (c. 3.7 miles) across the Attic plain, the construction of the Long

Walls altered the visual landscape of the entire countryside and stood as a symbol of

Athenian commitment to the development of its naval empire. The walls were supported by a “low footing of roughly-worked stones” on which rested a substructure composed of

87 Thuc. 2.13.7. 88 Thuc. 1.107.1. See also Conwell 2008, 37; Garland 1987, 22-4; Amit 1965, 80-1; Travlos 1971, 158. For a discussion of the Piraeus fortifications see Garland 1987, 14-22; Eickstedt 1991, 18-60; Travlos 1971, 158. 89 Aeschin. 2.174. See also Conwell 2008, 65; Garland 1987, 25. 90 For the distance between the northern wall and the “middle” wall, see Liangouras and Papachristodoulou (1972, 345), who estimate that the walls were only separated by approximately 183 meters. 91 There is considerable debate over when this abandonment occurred. Both Garlan (1974, 48) and Garland (1987, 25) suggest that this process began with the construction of the “middle” wall, while Conwell (2008, 96-100) argues that the Phaleric Wall was not abandoned until after the Peloponnesian occupation of Dekeleia, when Athens was forced to consolidate its defenses. For further discussion of his debate, see Conwell 2008, 96 n. 86. 79 an in-filled wall faced with trapezoidal-polygonal masonry.92 While nothing remains of the superstructure of Long Walls, it is likely that the stone foundations supported walls constructed of unbaked mud-brick (fig. 53).93 Despite the increasing prominence of stone circuit walls over the course of the 5th century, Frederick Winter has shown that sundried brick was still frequently used in the construction of large-scale fortifications during this period. Archaeological evidence from sites such as Mantineia attest to the use of mud- brick walls with stone foundations throughout the 5th century, and, in the case of

Mantineia, well into the 4th.94 Even the so-called Themistoklean Wall, the main fortification wall of Athens, which was haphazardly constructed in the aftermath of the

Persian War, consisted of a stone socle supporting mud-brick curtain walls.95 While the exact nature of the superstructure of the Long Walls cannot be known with absolute certainty, it has been suggested that the walls were likely topped by a parapet or battlements that would have protected the sentries and troops manning the walls during a siege.96 In addition, the ephemeral nature of sundried brick has made exact calculations

92 Conwell 1992, 397. This substructure was utilized for Phase Ia and Ib of the Long Walls (c. 462/1- 395/4). With the reconstruction of the Long Walls after the Peloponnesian War (Phase II), the substructure was altered, but as this reconstruction falls outside of the scope of the current project, subsequent phases will not be examined in detail. 93 Conwell 1992, 397-8; Conwell 2008, 3-4. See also Lawrence 1979, 156. For the general character and frequency of such constructions in the 5th century, see Winter 1971, 73-7. See also Ar. Av. 1133-1141. Although a comic representation, Aristophanes description of birds assembling a fortification wall suggests familiarity with this type of construction. The cranes (γέρανοι) carry stones (λίθους) intended for use in the foundations (θεµελίους), while the storks (πελαργοὶ) are making the bricks (ἐπλινθούργουν), which are presumably intended for the superstructure. 94 Scranton 1941, 57-9, 156-7, 163, 172; Lawrence 1971, 71-3. 95 Knigge 1991, 51-4. For the haphazard construction of this well, see Thuc. 1.93.1-2. 96 Conwell 1992, 398. Conwell bases this judgment on Thucydides’ account of the Athenian preparation for the invasion of Attica by the Spartans in the early years of the Peloponnesian Wars. In this passage (2.13.2-9), Perikles urges the Athenians to prepare for war and to take heart in the wealth and defense of the city. In particular, he notes the 13,000 hoplites on hand, as well as the 16,000 hoplites in the garrisons (ἐν τοῖς φρουρίοις) and on the battlements (παρ’ ἔπαλξιν). He then details the length of both the Phaleric Wall and the wall linking the city to the Piraeus, and outlines the extent of the walls that were defended 80 of the width and height of the Long Walls difficult to attain. David Conwell has reasonably suggested a width of c. 4.0-5.4 meters based on a fragment of the historian

Aristodemos, though he admits that use of such a late source presents its own problems.97

A. W. Lawrence notes simply, “judging from excavations following chance discoveries, a minimum thickness of 3.90 m seems to have obtained in both [the Long Walls].”98

Likewise, Liangouras and Papachristodoulou estimated a width of approximately 3.90-

4.00 meters.99 These measurements lend a certain amount of credence to the account of

Aristodemos, though the width of the Long Walls appears to fall within the narrower extent of Conwell’s estimate. In much the same way, the height of the Long Walls can only be approximated, and Conwell suggests a height of roughly 9.0 meters, based on the height of the Kerameikos fortifications, which were constructed in a low-lying and exposed area not unlike the Attic plain, across which the Long Walls stretched.100

Regardless of their exact dimensions, it is clear that the Long Walls represented a monumental effort by the Athenians to secure their connection to the sea and their harbors. Maintaining this connection became the centerpiece of Athenian military

(φυλασσόµενον/εν φυλακῇ) or had to remain defenseless (ἀφύλακτον) due to their length. While it is unclear that the term παρ’ ἔπαλξιν applies directly to the Long Walls or whether Thucydides is referring to the circuit walls of the city proper, the use of the conjunction τε γὰρ before the description of the Phaleric and Piraeic Walls indicates that the large number of troops (16,000) required to defend the city battlements was the direct result of the expansive stretch of wall connecting the city to the harbor. It seems reasonable, then, to assume that these walls, as well as the circuit walls, would have included parapets as part of their superstructure. 97 Conwell 1992, 398-400, citing Aristodemus, FGrHist 104 F 1.5(4) (T7). 98 Lawrence 1979, 156. 99 Liangouras and Papachristodoulou 1972, 343. 100 Conwell 1992, 400. For the height of the Kerameikos fortifications, see Lawrence (1979, 345), who states that the curtain walls near the Dipylon Gate would have stood to a height of roughly 9.80 meters. Such a height is not without parallel, as Lawrence notes. The curtain walls at Priene are preserved to close to 8.0 meters, while the walls at Samos approach 9.50 meters. For the walls at Priene, see Schede 1964, 19-21 and Ferla 2005, 55-6. For the walls at Samos, see Kienast 1978, 22-30, 39-40. 81 strategy for the majority of the 5th century. So closely associated were Athenian military power and naval dominance that Themistokles reportedly urged the Athenians to abandon the city proper in favor of inhabiting a fortified, and more useful (ὠφελιµώτερον),

Piraeus.101 Likewise, during the course of the Peloponnesian War, Thucydides relates that Perikles repeatedly warned the Athenians against land engagements with the

Spartans. He cautioned that attempts to expand the empire (ἀρχὴν…ἐπικτωµένους) or endanger the city (τῇ πόλει κινδυνεύοντας) would lead to their destruction, and so urged the citizens to be still (ἡσυχάζοντάς) and attend to the fleet (τὸ ναυτικὸν),102 since the navy was their true power (ᾗπερ ἰσχύοµεν).103 If the development of the Piraeus and the construction of the ship-sheds were prominent displays of the naval power endorsed by

Perikles, then the Long Walls served as a constant and visual reminder of the city’s link to that power.104

The massive walls, stretching across the Attic countryside, were clearly visible from elevated points in the city (fig. 54), and were part of the monumental transformation of Athens during the 5th century. That these walls were seen as a significant testament to

Athenian power and freedom can perhaps best be seen in Livy’s account of the travels of

Aemilius Paullus after the battle of Pydna in 168. Commenting on the many things fit to be seen in Athens (multa…visenda), Livy includes “the Acropolis, the harbor, the walls joining Piraeus to the city, the ship-sheds, memorials of great generals, and likenesses of

101 Thuc. 1.93. 102 Thuc. 2.65.7. 103 Thuc. 1.142.4-5. See also Thuc. 2.62.2. For additional discussion of Periklean naval strategy, including its effectiveness, see McGregor 1987, 134-5; Podlecki 1998, 14-6; Conwell 2008, 80-4. 104 For the idea of the development of the Piraeus and the construction of the Long Walls as a visual symbol, see Strauss 2000, 266. 82 the gods and of men, distinguished with every kind of material and art” (45.27.11).105 As mentioned above, such prominent monuments create and express the ideological identity of the community; such monuments can also become “politicized by why and how they are built, regarded and destroyed.”106 The Long Walls became a symbol of Athenian naval power and so reinforced the social and military identity of the entire community;107 they also came to represent the political dominance of the city over its “empire” in the

Aegean.108 To those subject to Athenian supremacy or opposed to the city’s democratic ideals, the walls remained a constant reminder of Athenian arrogance and oppression.109

To her enemies, the destruction of the Long Walls was synonymous with Athenian defeat and the end of the city’s political and military dominance in Greece.110 So strong was this connection that the Peloponnesians eagerly (πολλῇ προθυµίᾳ) tore down the walls to the sound of flute girls (ὑπ’ αὐλητρίδων) as soon as Athens agreed to their terms of surrender at the close of the Peloponnesian War.111 The Long Walls left in ruin served as

105 …arcem, portus, muros Piraeeum urbi iungentis, navalia, monumenta magnorum imperatorum, simulacra deorum hominumque, omni genere et materiae et atrium insignia (45.27.11). 106 Bevan 2006, 12. Bevan also notes that “collective identities [can be] forged and traditions invented” through monumental architecture. The “selective retention and destruction” of this architecture can then be used to manipulate or reconfigure such identities. 107 For the impact of Athenian naval power on the social and communal identity of the city, see Thuc. 2.38. 108 This connection is apparent in Thucydides’ account of the rise of Athenian power, which begins with Themistokles reconstruction the fortifications around the city. In their early campaigns and their break from their alliance with the Peloponnesians, the Athenians repeatedly order their allies to tear down their walls, while maintaining and expanding their own fortifications (Thuc. 1.89-106). Even before their completion, it is clear that the Long Walls became a particularly potent symbol of Athenian political power, as certain Athenians opposed to their government, offered an end to democracy and the Long Walls as incentive for Peloponnesian support (1.107.4-5). 109 Thuc. 1.107.4-5; Lys. 12.63 (Against Eratosthenes); Lys. 13.14-15 (Against Agoratus). See also Conwell 2008, 46-7. 110 Thuc. 5.26.1. 111 Xen. Hell. 2.2.23. As Xenophon reports (Hell. 2.2.20), the Athenians were required to demolish their fleet (with the exception of twelve ships), welcome back their exiles, become allied with the Spartans, and 83 a visible reminder of the Athenian defeat. But the structures still maintained their political significance, particularly under the Thirty:112 the reconstruction of the walls in the early 4th century would come to signify opposition to the Spartans and the Thirty

Tyrants, and marked the re-establishment of democracy in the city.113

Sitta von Reden, however, has argued that “the Piraeus developed contemporaneously with, but independently of, Athens as a second urban centre…it emerged as attached, but barely integrated in, the territory of the city of Athens.”114 Such a conclusion is based largely on Aristotle’s determination in his Politics that the residents of Piraeus were more democratic (µᾶλλον δηµοτικοὶ) than those in the city proper.115

As von Reden points out, Aristotle had earlier remarked that even if two places were to be linked (συναγάγοι τοὺς τόπους) by the construction of walls (τοῖς τείχεσιν), they would never be one polis (ὅµως οὐ µία πόλις).116 Extrapolating from this comment to

tear down the Long Walls as well as the walls around the Piraeus; though the were permitted to keep the fortifications around the city proper. 112 Amit 1965, 91. While it is likely that the entire extent of the Long Walls were not torn down by the Peloponnesians (Conwell 2008, 104-5), it seems that at least four kilometers of the walls were torn down; enough to negate their effectiveness, and enough to visually impact the appearance of the works as a whole. As Conwell (2008, 192) notes, “even as the Long Walls fell into disrepair…they were too massive, both in memory and in the landscape, to be forgotten entirely.” 113 Xen. Hell. 4.8.8-10. 114 Reden 1998, 186. For similar arguments, see Reden 1995, 32-33; Connor 1994, 38-40; Dougherty 2010, 139-42; Roy 1998, 201-2. While it is true that Piraeus had its own agora, temples, festivals, and administrators, and so a certain amount of independence, its importance for both trade and defense ensured that Athens maintained a closer watch on the port than it did on its other demes. See, for example, Garland 1987, 76-7. Likewise, it should not be assumed that Athens and the Piraeus were “barely integrated.” In addition to the commercial and military connection between the harbor and the city, there are numerous examples of citizens freely traveling between city and harbor and maintaining close relationships with inhabitants of both. In Plato’s Republic (327a1-328e1), for example, Socrates and Glaukon walk to the Piraeus to see a festival and make their offerings to the goddess. They then meet Polemarchos, who takes them to the home of his father, Kephalos, an old friend of Socrates. This simple episode illustrates that fact that the city and its harbor were more closely related than there locations would imply. 115 Arist. Pol. 1303b11. 116 Arist. Pol. 1280b13-5; see Reden 1998, 186. 84 the situation in Athens and the relationship between Piraeus and the city proper is perhaps natural, but Aristotle, in fact, does not draw this comparison directly. Rather, he states that to link two poleis, such as Corinth and Megara, together would never lead to a unified community, and the divide between Athens and Piraeus was not so distinct as that between Corinth and Megara.117

While a political chasm developed between the harbor and the city center, this does not seem to have occurred until late in the 5th century. Piraeus did not become integrally and inseparably linked to democracy until the reign of the Thirty Tyrants, when the harbor town became the stronghold of the democratic resistance to the oligarchy.118

While tension almost certainly existed between residents of the city center and those inhabiting the harbor, it is not necessarily the case that Piraeus developed as a distinct and antithetical second urban center.119 As Aristophanes quips in the Knights, Themistokles

“kneaded the Piraeus…[for the city] while she was having breakfast” (ln. 815).120

Aristophanes’ use of the word προσµάσσω (“to knead one thing against another; to apply; to attach closely to”) implies not two distinctly different poleis, but rather a close relationship between the city and its harbor, a relationship from which, as Aristophanes notes, the inhabitants of the city benefitted gastronomically.121 As Demos remarks later in the play, it cannot be denied that Themistokles’ decision to connect the city to the sea

117 Arist. Pol. 1280b14-5. 118 Xen. Hell. 2.4.10-43. See also Plut. Vit. Them. 19.2-4. 119 See Roy (1998, 197-202), who notes that tensions existed between Piraeus and Athens, but argues that it is difficult to link these tensions so directly to political differences. As Roy cautions, there would have certainly been a continuing and complicated social and political discourse between the city and the harbor, but we possess only the point of view of the city. 120 …καὶ πρὸς τούτοις ἀριστώσῃ τὸν Πειραιᾶ προσέµαξεν (Eq. 815). 121 Ar. Eq. 813-9. 85 was a wise (σοφὸν) one (though not as wise as the gift of a warm tunic).122 These excerpts from Aristophanes, while comic in nature, illustrate the close connection between Athens and Piraeus. Despite the almost certain demographic and political tensions that existed between the two, the city maintained a close, and beneficial, relationship to its harbors.

The idea of the divided polis argued by von Reden is certainly credible, but only after the events of 403, when the oligarchy was overthrown by a democratic army centered in Piraeus; reliance on Aristotle’s 4th century account to draw conclusions about the relationship between Athens and her harbor in the mid-5th century, however, is more problematic. That perceptions of Piraeus had changed in the 90 years since it’s initial development is perhaps best seen in Plutarch’s description of the life of Themistokles. In recounting Themistokles’ development of the Piraeus, Plutarch notes that Aristophanes’ use of the term προσµάσσω is misleading, as Themistokles did not “knead” the Piraeus into the city, but rather attached the harbor to it (τὴν πόλιν ἐξῆψε τοῦ Πειραιῶς).123 It is this attachment that, according to Plutarch, brought the sea to the land, made oligarchy distasteful, and placed power into the hands of the naval masses.124 Unlike Aristophanes,

Plutarch sees little advantage in Themistokles’ plan to link the city to the sea, and so highlights a binary opposition between the seafaring inhabitants of the Piraeus and the landed men of the city. Reliance on such an account to reconstruct the relationship between Athens and Piraeus, however, raises questions, as the manner in which the

122 Ar. Eq. 885. For the benefits of Themistokles’ development of the navy and the Piraeus, see also Hdt. 7.144. 123 Plut. Vit. Them. 19.4. 124 Plut. Vit. Them. 19.4; for a similar opinion, see the sentiments of the “Old-Oligarch” [Ath. pol.] 1.2. 86 Piraeus was perceived and represented in Athens was far from uniform or unchanging in the centuries between Themistokles’ development of the navy and the writings of

Aristotle or Plutarch. As Robert Nelson and Margaret Olin have argued, monuments – such as, in this case, the Long Walls, ship-sheds, or trophies that marked Athens’ naval identity – although designed to be permanent, “[changed] constantly as [they renegotiated] ideals, status, and entitlement, defining the past to affect the present and the future.”125

While Aristotle and Plutarch viewed Piraeus and the city’s naval identity as a symbol of Athenian arrogance and decline, such a perception was neither universal nor fixed.126 Rather, their opinions were influenced and shaped by their own perceptions and motivations, and were impacted by the social and historical contexts in which they were writing. In the years leading up to the Peloponnesian War, Athens did not distance itself from its association with the sea, but rather embraced, fostered, and displayed the naval identity from which it derived its ever-increasing wealth, power, and influence.

Monuments such as the ship-sheds, Long Walls, trophies, and casualty lists prominently displayed the important position that the navy held in the public imaginary of Athens (not just for the people of the city, but to the rest of Greece as well). In addition, while these monuments were all constructed outside of the city proper, naval imagery was prominently, and permanently, displayed even in the very heart of the Classical city, despite modern claims that naval iconography was avoided in Athens because of its

125 Nelson and Olin 2003, 7. See also Pierre Nora (1996, 3), who says, “Memory is life, always embodied in living societies and as such in permanent evolution, subject to the dialectic of remembering and forgetting, unconscious of the distortions to which it is subject, vulnerable in various ways to appropriation and manipulation, and capable of lying dormant for long periods only to be suddenly reawakened.” 126 For a similar perceptions of the navy in the 4th century, see Pl. Leg. 704d9-705b6. 87 association with the “riff-raff and low-class laborers” of the city and its harbor.127 How this was done is the focus of the next section.

Part 3.3: Poseidon and Athens: Sea, Sanctuary, and Ritual in Classical Athens

Following the defeat of the Persian army at Plataia in 479, it is said that the

Greeks vowed to leave the burnt and ruined remains of their temples and buildings as a memorial to the sacrilege of the Persians and the sacrifice of the Greeks.128 While scholars have long debated the authenticity of the so-called “Oath of Plataia,” it seems as though monumental public building in the city of Athens came to a virtual halt at the close of the Persian Wars.129 With the exception of the rapid and haphazard reconstruction of the city’s fortifications, it does not seem that the Athenians undertook to rebuild the ruined public center of their city until after a peace was reached with Persia sometime between 463 and 449.130 Shortly after this peace was struck, an expansive and

127 Neer 2002, 162-3. 128 Lycurg. Leoc. 81, Diod. Sic. 11.29.3. An ephebic inscription found at Acharnai (Tod 1933-1948, 2.204) also mentions an oath taken at Plataia, though the text makes no mention of a moratorium on public building. While the validity of the so-called “Oath of Plataia” has been greatly debated, the episode highlights the powerful effect that ruined monuments can have on the inhabitants of a polis. Whether the ruined remains of the Long Walls, or the toppled remnants of the Ship-Sheds, monuments retained a powerful significance, even after their destruction. As Nilson and Olin (2003, 3) have demonstrated, “…monuments are prized precisely because they are not merely cold, hard, and permanent. They are also living, vital, immediate, and accessible, at least to some parts of society. Because a monument can achieve a powerful symbolic agency, to damage it, much less to obliterate it, constitutes a personal and communal violation with serious consequences. While the destruction of mere things is commonplace in our takeout and throwaway world, attacking a monument threatens a society’s sense of itself and its past.” 129 For an overview of the arguments for and against the historicity of the “Oath of Plataia,” as well as the ancient testimonia, see Siewert 1972, 1-16. For additional discussions of the veracity of the oath, see Fine 1983, 323-8; Camp 2001, 60; Ferrari 2002, 13-4, 28-30; and Meiggs 37-40. 130 For the reconstruction of the walls, see Thuc. 1.93.1-2. While monumental, public building seems to have ceased in Athens in the two decades following the Persian Wars, a number of smaller, private constructions were still erected throughout the city. It is also likely that domestic and defensive 88 monumental construction program was begun in Athens under the supervision and guidance of the statesman Perikles.131 As early as 447/6, construction began on the centerpiece of that program, the Parthenon.132 Located on the Acropolis, a 500 foot (152 meter) tall rock-outcropping jutting out of the Attic plain, the Parthenon would have dominated the skyline of the ancient city (fig. 55).133

Constructed on the foundations of an earlier temple to Athena, which was destroyed in the Persian sack of the city in 480, the Periklean Parthenon stood as a testament to Athens’ newly established wealth and power in the Aegean.134 Constructed entirely of Pentelic marble, the 8 x 17 Doric temple stood in stark contrast to the smaller, limestone naïskoi of the Archaic period and underlined the newly acquired wealth and prestige of the polis.135 In addition to the marble construction of the building, and its monumental scale, the Athenians sought to elaborately decorate the Parthenon with sculptural programs that prominently displayed the ideology of the polis to all who looked upon the building.136 As Lisa Kallet has noted, monuments such as the Parthenon were designed as “visible signs of power,” since vision “not only had the greatest reconstruction was heightened during this period as the Athenians rebuilt the ruined city. See Lapatin 2007, 128-9 and Camp 2001, 59-72. For the difficulties surrounding the date of the so-called Peace of Kallias, see Fine 1983, 359-61 and Badian 1993, 1-72. 131 Camp 2001, 72-4; Lapatin 2007, 128-9; Hurwit 2005, 51-2. 132 IG I3 449.369-77, one of the Parthenon building accounts, records the name of an archon, Krates, whose archonship occurred in the year 434/3. The text was inscribed in the 14th year of the Parthenon’s construction, and so it attests to the initiation of the project in 447/6. See also Kallet 2005, 53-6 and Barletta 2005, 67-8, with n. 5. 133 Hurwit 2005, 9-10. 134 For the sack of the city, see Hdt. 8.51-55, 9.13. For the Older Parthenon Temple, see Barletta 2005, 68- 72 and Hurwit 1999, 129-36. 135 For the earlier monuments of the Acropolis, see Hurwit 1999, 99-136; Camp 2001, 28-39. For the considerable wealth invested in the construction of the Parthenon, see Kallet 2005, 51-7. 136 For a general descriptions of the sculptural programs of the Parthenon, see Camp 2001, 77-81; Jenkins 2007, 35-45; Hurwit 1999, 169-88. 89 emotional impact of all the senses, but impressive visual phenomena conveyed concrete evidence of power.”137 The use of both the Doric and Ionic orders by the architects of the

Parthenon provided just such a “visual phenomenon” and allowed for a sculptural program that included not only decorated metopes and pediments of the Doric order, but also a continuous, sculpted frieze characteristic of the Ionic order.138

Such integration of the orders was not unique to the Parthenon, but the inclusion of sculptural decoration that encircled the entirety of the building was unusual in antiquity and clearly demonstrated the wealth and effort invested in the construction of the temple.139 The sculptural program must have been carefully chosen to project a certain image of the city, though the exact nature of that image is still a point of much contention.140 The metopes lining the exterior of the building depicted scenes of the

Gigantomachy, Amazonomachy, Centauromachy, and the Trojan War, while the Ionic

137 Kallet 2005, 61. 138 Pedersen (1989, 21-2) has also suggested that, in addition to architectural elements derived from both the Doric and Ionic orders, the Parthenon may have contained columns of the Corinthian order as well. No fragments of a Corinthian capital, however, has survived from the Parthenon, and so such a conclusion remains purely speculative. See Barletta 2005, 87. For the meaning of the use of both orders, see Rhodes 1995. 139 See, for example, the Hephaisteion, which has both the Doric frieze consisting of triglyphs and metopes and the running frieze typical of Ionic temples; however, the Hephaisteion has only 18 sculpted metopes. Ten across its eastern façade, and four each along the easternmost ends of the north and south facades. In addition, the sculpted Ionic frieze runs only across the front facades of the naos and opisthodomos porches. In contrast, the sculpted metopes and Ionic freize of the Parthenon circumvent the entire building. See Camp 2001, 102. See also Schwab (2005, 159), who notes, “These high reliefs [of the metopes] are situated on all four sides of the Parthenon – a highly unusual arrangement for a Greek temple and one that adds to the unique nature of the building and its appearance. For a similar opinion, see Ridgway (1999, 207), who states simply “that carved metopes on temples are used either sparingly or erxceptionally.” 140 See Camp (2001, 77), who states simply, “The themes of the sculpture are particularly appropriate to the building and illuminate its varied roles in projecting the city’s image.” For discussions of the many problems and questions still surrounding the form, function, and meaning of the Parthenon, see the recent volume edited by Jennifer Neils (2005a). 90 frieze inside this portrayed a procession, whose exact identification remains a mystery.141

The sculptural programs of the pediments, however, are securely identified by a rather laconic account given by the 2nd century CE traveler Pausanias. He remarks simply that

“as you enter the temple, which they call the Parthenon, as many [sculptures as there are] that lie on those things which are called pediments, all these relate to the birth of Athena, and those [sculptures] at the back are the contest of Poseidon against Athena on behalf of the land” (1.24.4-5).142 The iconography and arrangement of these sculptures are preserved in a set of 17th century drawings by an artist identified as the Flemish painter

Jacques Carrey (fig. 56-59), who drew the pediments only two decades before they were irreparably damaged by the Venetian bombardment of the Acropolis in 1687 (fig. 60).143

While Carrey’s drawings are a unique record of the sculptural program of the Parthenon pediments, the deteriorated state of the pediment sculptures, even as these stood in the

17th century, has led to considerable debate as regards both their exact content and composition.144 Even so, the appearance of Poseidon on the west pediment is well attested by both Pausanias’ account and Carrey’s sketches (fig. 61).

141 For the metopes, see Schwab (2005, 158-97), who includes a discussion of the state of current scholarship on the Parthenon metopes (162-4). While the images and content of the metopes are generally agreed upon, the identification of the procession depicted on the Ionic frieze is still greatly debated. For a general overview of the scholarship on the frieze through the mid-90’s, see Connelly 1996, 53-5. For more recent discussions of the frieze, see Neils 2005b, 201-13; Lagerlöf 2000, 24-30; and Jeppesen 2007, 142- 62. Note also Jeppesen’s (2007, 101-20) discussion of the history of scholarship related to the frieze. 142 ἐς δὲ τὸν ναὸν ὸν Παρθενῶνα ὀνοµάζουσιν, ἐς τοῦτον ἐσιοῦσιν ὀπόσα ἐν τοῖς καλουµένοις ἀετοῖς κεῖται, πάντα ἐς τὴν Ἀθηνᾶς ἔχει γένεσιν, τὰ δὲ ὄπισθεν ἡ Ποσειδῶνος πρὸς Ἀθηνᾶν ἐστιν ἔρις ὑπὲρ τῆς γῆς (1.24.4-5). 143 On the Venetian bombardment of the Acropolis, see Hurwit 1999, 291-3. 144 The conversion of the temple into a church, for example, has left a gaping hole in the East pediment, which was converted into an apse. This has led to considerable debate surrounding the central figures, which did not survive in the 17th century. See, for example, Palagia 1993, 27-30 91 The most detailed account of the competition between Poseidon and Athena was recorded by Apollodorus in the 2nd century, though numerous other accounts survive from both the Greek and Roman periods.145 According to the myth, the gods, wishing to establish their own cults, began to take possession of cities on earth. Poseidon, who desired the land of Attica, went to the Acropolis and struck it with his trident, causing a salt-water spring to rise on the spot. With this sign, the god claimed the region as his own. Despite his early claim, Poseidon had no witness to the event, and soon Athena challenged him for control of the region and bestowed her own gift upon the Acropolis.

With Kekrops, the first king of Attica as her witness, Athena planted an olive tree atop the Acropolis as her claim on the land. A fight between the two deities immediately broke out, and only through the intervention of Zeus, and with the testimony of Kekrops, was Attica finally granted to Athena.

The episode depicted on the west pediment of the Parthenon is usually thought to show the moment of Athena’s arrival, and so it is argued that her gift of the olive tree would have occupied the central axis of the scene.146 Such an arrangement is borne out by the survival of similar scenes on a pair of hydriai, one now located in St. Petersburg, and the other in Pella (fig. 62-63).147 Although these hydriai both date to around the year

400, their compositions are strikingly similar to the arrangement of the west pediment

145 Apollod. Bibl. 3.14.1. Other sources for the myth include Hdt. 8.55; Pl. Menex. 237c7-d1; Xen. Mem. 3.5.9-10; and Isocr. Panath. 12.193.1-4. Numerous later accounts also survive from the Roman period, including those of Vergil (G. 1.12-14) and Ovid (Met. 6.70-82). For a more detailed discussion of the tradition of this myth in literary sources, see Binder 1984, 15-20; 146 Palagia 2005, 246; Palagia 1993, 46-7; Camp 2001, 77-8. For the problems with this interpretation, see Hurwit 1999, 31-3, 174-7. 147 St. Petersburg, State Hermitage Museum, 6a; Pella, Pella Museum, 80.514. See Palagia 1993, 44; Simon 1980, 249-50. 92 sculptures as drawn by Carrey.148 Poseidon, trident raised as though about ready to strike the ground, recoils dramatically to the right, while Athena, with shield and spear in hand, leans to the left, admiring her creation – the newly sprung olive tree (fig. 64). The presence of the olive tree at the center of the west pediment remains purely speculative, as only a few fragments of the central scene survived the Venetian bombardment of the

Parthenon and the buildings conversion into a church, a mosque, and a fortress.149

Pausanias mentions only that the pediment displays “the contest of Poseidon against

Athena on behalf of the land,” and it is true that “it is not clear exactly what version of the myth, or what point in the narrative, the pedimental sculptures depict.”150 Erika

Simon has argued that the scene represents not the production of the olive tree but the moment of Zeus’s intervention in the dispute.151 According to the fullest account of the contest between the deities, Poseidon, enraged by his loss of Attica, flooded the plain and submerged the city under the sea.152 Only by the command of Zeus did Poseidon bring his fury to a close and relinquish Athens to its patron goddess Athena. The iconography of the Pella hydria, on which both Athena’s olive tree and Zeus’s thunderbolt separate the dueling deities, supports Simon’s interpretation.153 Following this proposal, Poseidon’s dramatic pose on the Parthenon would suggest not his original claim to Attica, but rather

148 Palagia 1993, 44. 149 Hurwit 1999, 287, 292-8; Camp 2001, 240-4; Jenkins 2007, 23-9. 150 Paus. 1.24.4-5. Hurwit 1999, 32-3. For additional discussion of the problems with the scene’s identification, see Palagia 1993, 40-1. 151 Simon 1980, 245-9. 152 Appolod. Bibl. 3.14.1. 153 Simon 1980, 249-51; Palagia 2005, 246 . 93 his subsequent decision to flood the Thracian plain after the loss of the contest.154

Without a more complete ancient description of the sculptural programs of the Parthenon, however, the exact details of the scene represented in the west pediment will remain uncertain.155

Nevertheless, Poseidon’s prominent presence on the Parthenon is well attested both by Pausanias’ account and Carrey’s 17th century drawings, and it is the god’s presence that I wish to underscore here. The figure of the god in fact dominates the west pediment, relegating Athena slightly to the background, as can be seen in Carrey’s drawing (fig. 59, 61).156 Such a juxtaposition is striking, particularly since the building was dedicated to Athena, the victor of the contest and the subsequent patron deity of the city. In addition, the Parthenon was approached from the west by way of the Propylaia

(fig. 65), and upon entering, a visitor would have first caught sight of this pediment and the dominant image of Poseidon, who may have been wearing a gold cuirass (fig. 66).157

As discussed in the previous chapter, the appearance of Poseidon in Athenian

154 Apollod. Bibl. 3.14.1. See also Palagia 1993, 47; Palagia 2005, 244. Pollitt (2000, 225) has objected to such an interpretation, arguing that the Athenians would not have wished to present the gods vengeance at a time when they were embracing the deity’s tutelary role as protector of the fleet and god of the sea. As Pollitt states, “It seems far more probable that the pediment was designed to remind the Athenians that both gods had an ancient interest in Athens, that both had been and continued to be its benefactors, that both were worshipped on the Acropolis, and that through the wisdom of Zeus, they had been reconciled at Athens…” While Pollitt’s interpretation is certainly compelling, it is difficult to overlook the iconographical similarities between Carrey’s drawings of the west pediment and the red-figure hydria now in Pella. 155 For detailed discussions of these uncertainties, see Hurwit 1999, 176-7; Palagia 1993, 40-59; Pollitt 2000, 222-5. 156 Hurwit 1999, 32, 176. 157 See Hurwit 1999, 174, who cautions that, despite the prominence of the scene, “one would have to have viewed it above the mass of monuments, walls, and shrines that cluttered the field of vision of anyone passing through the Propylaia.” Nevertheless, he continues, “the pediment still loomed over all, its drama enlivened by colorfully painted and even partly gilded figures.” For the gilded cuirass, see Peter Schultz’s 2004 abstract for the 105th Annual Meeting of the Archaeological Institute of America, “Poseidon’s nudity and the iconography of the Parthenon’s west pediment.” 94 iconography of the 5th century has long been connected to the city’s recently acquired naval dominance.158 Jeffrey Hurwit has argued that Poseidon’s centrality in the scene

“may be an acknowledgement of the power of the sea-god, in whose province the

Athenian navy had been so successful since Salamis.”159 Poseidon’s gift of a saltwater spring on the Acropolis reinforces this idea. While later traditions may have called into question the utility of the god’s gift for the land-locked citizens of Athens, the 5th century connotations seem clear: Poseidon has brought the sea to the city-center.160 The prominent and public display of this scene, then, suggests not that the Athenians were trying to conceal or veil this connection, as argued by Neer, but that they projected and promoted it through a newly adopted, and public, symbolism.161 The city displayed its power and ideology through its public works, and the Parthenon stood as the centerpiece of 5th century building in Athens.162

On the other hand, the noticeable absence of ship iconography on the Parthenon – particularly in the continuous frieze – has led a number of scholars to conclude that the

158 Neer 2002, 162-3; Neils 1987, 79, 150; Mannack 1995, 109; Brommer 1982, 82-3; Heimberg 1968, 53; Shapiro 1994, 121; Shapiro 1992, 39-40; Shapiro 1982, 294; Tausend 1989, 229. 159 Hurwit 1999, 176. Hurwit (1999, 32) argues earlier in the same work that “the centrality of the sea-god in the west pediment may be, after a fashion, an expression of gratitude to the divinity who, told by Zeus to stop his floods, held no grudges and still granted Athens naval supremacy, ensuring their victory over the Persians in the waters of Salamis in 480.” Such an interpretation has been largely accepted, though some scholars, such as Palagia, have suggested alternate interpretations for the figures prominence. Palagia (2005, 252-3) argues that the figure of Poseidon, taken with the riders of the frieze and the Amazonomachy of the metopes on the west façade of the Parthenon, is projected not in his role as a naval deity, but rather “as Hippios, aristocratic patron of the cavalry and the chariot race.’ As such, the god “is here seen as the guarantor of the stability of the wealthy classes, which serve as the bedrock foundation of the volatile Athenian democracy.” While Poseidon’s association with the horse cannot be denied, his gift of seawater in the contest makes his association with the sea in this myth unavoidable. Poseidon is bringing the sea to Athens, not merely favoring the aristocratic, horse-owning citizens of the polis. 160 For the changing connotations of the myth, see Binder 1984, 16-9. 161 Neer 2002, 162-3. 162 For the use of monumental architecture and art as a display of public ideology, see, for example, Hölscher 1991, 369-72; Hölscher 1998, 156. 95 Parthenon was not intended to commemorate the city’s naval achievements, but only its hoplite and cavalry campaigns.163 Such public disdain for the navy, however, would be startling, especially on a monument largely funded by the tribute secured through the city’s naval activities in the Delian League.164 Rather than conceal their increased reliance upon the navy during the 5th century, it would seem that the Athenians celebrated their connection to the sea through this public and prominent portrayal of the god, under whose protection lay the safety of the city’s fleet.165 In addition to this representation of

Poseidon on the Parthenon, the god seems to have gained an increased cult presence on the Acropolis during the 5th century as well. The earliest, securely dated dedication to the god on the Acropolis dates to c. 480-475, and, as Judith Binder has contended, “There is no literary, epigraphical, or archaeological evidence to indicate that the cult of Poseidon existed on the Acropolis before the battle of Salamis.”166 While the archaeological evidence for a cult of Poseidon on the Acropolis is noticeably sparse before 480, Alan

Shapiro has argued that the recurrence of images of Poseidon with Athena on black-

163 Strauss 1996, 321; Raaflaub 1996, 158; Jenkins 1994, 26; Palagia 2005, 252-3; Boardman 1977, 43-4. See, though, Neils (2005, 220), who argues that the rows of horsemen “alludes to all the ‘victories of the Athenians’ as Cyriac of Ancona put it, on both land (Marathon, Plataia) and sea (Salamis, Eurymedon), not solely the one on the plain of Marathon.” 164 Kallet 2005, 37-9, 51-7. See also, Plut. Vit. Per. 12.2-4. 165 Hurwit 1999, 32; Pollitt 2000, 225. For the city’s reliance on the fleet, see Thuc. 2.62.1-3. 166 For the dedication to Poseidon, see Raubitschek 1949, 261-2 (no. 229) and IG I3 828. For the quote, see Binder 1984, 21. See also Jeffery 1988, 124-6. Hurwit (1999, 32) also suggests that “it may be, in fact, that a cult of Poseidon was first installed on the Acropolis in the 470s to thank (or appease) him [for ensuring victory over the Persians at Salamis].” Hurwit, however, proceeds with slightly more caution than Binder and acknowledges that “there is no way to be sure” that Poseidon had no cult presence on the Acropolis before Salamis. 96 figure vases of the Archaic period may suggest that the two had cults on the Acropolis before the battle of Salamis.167

Without further archaeological or epigraphic evidence, it is difficult to substantiate either the presence or absence of a cult of Poseidon prior to 480. But despite the scarcity of evidence, it is clear that “a new importance came to be attached to [the cult of Poseidon] in the period after the Persians Wars.”168 A cult of Poseidon shared the

Erechtheion with the patron deity of the city, Athena Polias.169 In addition, the peplos – the garment presented to the wooden image of Athena every four years during the greater

Panathenaic Festival – was brought to the cult statue of Athena Polias on a ship wheeled through the city.170 This custom visually and figuratively tied the central emblem of

167 Shapiro 1989, 105. See also Hurwit 1999, 32; Palagia 2005, 242-3. See also Mansfield (1985, 251-2) (Robe of Athena, diss. Berkeley), who points out the presence of the olive tree on the Acropolis before the Persian Wars. As Mansfield notes, it is difficult to imagine the presence of the olive tree without the story of the competition between Athena and Poseidon. If this is indeed the case, it may suggest the cult presence of both deities on the Acropolis before the battle of Salamis in 480. For the mention of the olive tree, see Herodotus 8.55. 168 Pollitt 2000, 225. 169 Hurwit 1999, 200-2; Shapiro 1989, 105; Mansfield 1985, 247-9. A fragment from Euripides’ Erechtheus (Austin 1968, 65.33-100) seems to confirm the cult association of Athena and Poseidon, and Pausanias’ (1.26.5-27.2) description of the Erechtheion likewise suggests that both cults were housed within the same building. The ambiguity of Pausanias’ account, however, has led some scholars to question exactly which building housed these cults (see, for example, Jeppesen 1979, 385-94; Robertson 1996, 37-44; Ridgway 1992, 126-7). While Pausanias’ account is ambiguous, the unusual plan of the Erechtheion seems intended to incorporate numerous cults or sacred spaces (Camp 2001, 95), and seems a likely candidate for the Erechtheion described by Pausanias. Some scholars, such as Rhodes (1995, 131-4), have even attempted to ascribe particular cults to each wing of the Erechtheion, though such specific attributions are largely speculative as there is little evidence for the exact organization and distribution of cults within the building. Regardless of the exact location of this building, however, the cult association of Poseidon and Athena on the Acropolis seems certain. 170 For the origin and nature of the Panathenaic Festival and its procession, see Robertson 1996, 56-65 and Neils 1992, 13-7, 20-2. For a description of the peplos woven for the festival, including its use as a sail on a “ship-float,” see Barber 1992, 112-7. The choice to carry the peplos through the city as though the sail of a ship is intriguing, and the connection of this iconography with Athens’ newly developed naval strength is difficult to avoid. As Shapiro (1996, 217) has suggested, this particular tradition my have developed shortly after the battle at Salamis. Such specific dating, however, is problematic. Regardless of its inception, however, Shapiro rightly notes that “it is reasonable to suppose that the practice took on added significance with the growth of Athens’ naval empire.” See also Mansfield 1985, 68-78; Barber 1992, 114. 97 Athena’s continued protection of the city, the peplos, to naval iconography: the navy delivered the promise of continued prosperity for the city.171 The increased prominence of the cult of Poseidon in the wake of the battle at Salamis and the reaffirmation of the god’s connection with Athena reflect not a concerted effort to conceal the city’s connection to its fleet, but, rather, a public affirmation of its naval identity.

Following the Persian Wars, Poseidon’s was not the only cult to gain such an increased prominence in Athens. Numerous gods and goddesses were honored for their role in the Greek victory: a sanctuary of Pan was established on the Acropolis after

Marathon, and 500 goats were sacrificed each year to Artemis for her aid in the same battle. In addition, a panhellenic altar was dedicated to Zeus following the battle at

Plataia.172 Gods that contributed to naval victories were similarly commemorated, particularly in Athens.173 In addition to Poseidon’s cult on the Acropolis, which gained increased prominence in the 5th century, a sanctuary was also dedicated to Boreas for his role in the Athenian victories at Mt. Athos and Artemision.174 According to Herodotus, the Athenians had been told by an oracle to summon their son-in-law for assistance against the Persian fleet at Cape Artemision. The Athenians concluded that the oracle referred to Boreas, who had married the daughter of Erechtheus, an early king of Athens.

They prayed to the north wind and a sudden storm fell upon the Persian fleet, which was anchored off the coast; at least 400 Persian warships along with countless merchant vessels and support ships were destroyed by the strong wind. While the Persian fleet was

171 For the importance of the peplos in the Panathenaic Festival, see Neils 1992, 13. 172 Boedeker 2007, 65. 173 For an overview of these commemorations, see Mikalson 2003, 60-85. 174 Hdt. 7.189. See also Hdt. 6.44. 98 far from destroyed by this storm, enough damage was done to increase the Athenian chance of victory, which was ultimately obtained.175

In recognition of the god’s assistance, the Athenians established a small sanctuary to Boreas near the Ilissos River, not far from the Temple of Artemis Agrotera. (fig.

67).176 Nothing survives of this sanctuary, but Plato mentions an altar (βωµὸς) not far from the precinct of Agra, and Pausanias notes that the area was closely associated with

Boreas, because it was from there that he carried off Oreithyia, Erechtheios’ daughter.177

Thus, in much the same ways as Poseidon, Boreas acquired an increased significance in

Athens following the Persian Wars.178 His sanctuary on the Ilissos was a visible reminder of the god’s role in the naval battles at Mt. Athos and Artemision; indeed, according to Pollitt, it “must have seemed an important shrine for those who were dedicated to seeing that Athens retained her control of the Aegean.”179 This control was maintained, in large part, by the city’s navy, which had been granted divine protection by both Poseidon and Boreas. The Athenians, elite and non-elite alike, chose to recognize such divine contributions through public festivals, rituals, and sanctuaries. The city certainly continued to commemorate its hoplite and cavalry accomplishments, but I would argue that it neither ignored nor concealed its naval achievements. Indeed, the numerous cult sites and sanctuaries established in the city following the Persian Wars

175 Hdt. 7.189-193. See also Mikalson 2003, 61-2. 176 Hdt. 7.189: “…ἱρὸν ἀπελθόντες Βορέω ἱδρύσαντο παρὰ ποταµὸν Ἰλισσόν.” For the possible location of this sanctuary, see Travlos 1971, 112. 177 Pl. Phdr. 229C; Paus. 1.19.6. 178 Agard 1966, 241; Pollitt 1987, 13-4; Simon 1967, 111-7; Jacquemin 1979, 190-1. 179 Pollitt 1987, 14. 99 must have served as a constant reminder of the city’s newly acquired naval identity and conspicuously transformed the visual, as well as the ritual, landscape of the city.

Such rituals honored the military accomplishments of the entire community and served as a conduit through which polis identity could be repeatedly formed and reaffirmed. During the Classical period, few figures more fully embodied this communal identity than the Athenian hero Theseus.180 During the 5th century, Theseus came to be viewed as the “embodiment of the Athenian state” as well as a symbol of “heroic military prowess.”181 It was for this reason that Kimon, following his capture of Skyros in 476/5, eagerly sought the hero’s tomb (ἐσπούδασε τὸν τάφον ἀνευρεῖν).182 According to an oracle, the Athenians were to retrieve the bones of Theseus, bring them back to the city, and grant the hero suitable honors.183 The exact location of Theseus’ remains, however, was unknown. The hero, having been deposed by Menestheus, had fled from Athens to

Skyros, where he was murdered by Lykomedes.184 Upon his arrival on the island, Kimon attempted to find Theseus’ bones, but the inhabitants of Skyros would not provide any information about their location. Despite the Skyrians’ lack of cooperation, Kimon persisted and eventually discovered and retrieved the bones, carrying them back to

Athens on his trireme.185 When the remains arrived at Athens, they were received with

180 See Castriota 1997, 209-13; Hölscher 1998, 160-1; Neer 2002, 154-5; Shapiro 1992, 33; Pollitt 1987, 9- 10; Neils 1987, 148-151. 181 Pollitt 1987, 10. 182 Plut. Vit. Cim. 8.5-6. See also Plut. Vit. Thes. 36.2. For the possible problems surrounding the date of Kimon’s campaign in Skyros, see Podlecki 1971, 141-3 and Barron 1972, 20-1. 183 Plut. Vit. Cim. 8.5-6. See also Diod. Sic., Library 4.62.4. 184 Plutarch, The Life of Theseus 32-5. See also Diodorus Siculus 4.62.4. 185 Plutarch gives two accounts of the discovery of the bones of Theseus. In his Life of Kimon (8.5-6), he states that Kimon was able to discover the bones only with much ambition/obstinacy (πολλῇ φιλοτιµίᾳ). In his Life of Theseus, however, he says that Kimon found the bones only after spotting an eagle pecking and 100 magnificent processions (ποµπαῖς…λαµπραῖς) and sacrifices (θυσίαις) and eventually deposited in the middle of the city (ἐν µέσῃ τῇ πόλει).186

Little is known of the final resting place of Theseus’ bones in Athens. The sanctuary (ἱερόν) constructed to house the hero’s remains was said to be located near the

Gymnasium of Ptolemy, not far from the Agora (fig. 68).187 Numerous inscribed lists of victors in the games held to honor Theseus have been found in the area east of the Agora and suggest the sanctuary’s likely location.188 Its precise position in the city center, however, remains unknown, because the area lies beneath what is now Plaka, and so the

Theseion has never been excavated.189 Even so, Pausanias does provide considerable details about its decorative program.190 He says that the interior of the Theseion was decorated with three murals, two of which depicted Theseus in battle. The first of these tearing at a mound of earth, under which was discovered Theseus’ tomb. For Kimon’s trireme, see Plut. Vit. Thes. 36.3; Vit. Cim. 8.6. 186 For the Athenians enthusiasm at the return of the bones, see Plut. Vit. Thes. 36.3; Vit. Cim. 8.6; Diod. Sic. 4.62.4. On the placement of the bones in the middle of the city, see Plut. Vit. Thes. 36.4. 187 Pausanias (1.17.2) describes the Theseion simply as a sanctuary (ἱερόν), though it is clear from his account that at least one building was associated with the site. Only the scholiasts mention a temple in association with the Theseion, and so it seems more probable that the area was an enclosed space with a number of associated buildings, as well as the tomb of Theseus. It is likely that a temenos existed at the spot before Theseus’ bones were returned, though whether any buildings had been erected before Kimon’s actions on Skyros is uncertain (Thompson and Wycherley 1972, 124). For a discussion of the form and location of the complex, as well as a collection of literary references to it, see Wycherley 1957, 113-9; Barron 1972, 22; Connor 1970, 159-60. For the current difficulties in locating the site, see Camp 2001, 66; Travlos 1971, 234, 578-9; Castriota 1992, 33. 188 For the lists of victors and epigraphical mention of the Theseion, see IG II2 956-965. For the use of these inscriptions for determining the possible location of the Theseion, see Camp 2001, 66. For further discussion of the Theseion’s possible location, see Thompson and Wycherley 1972, 125; Travlos 1971, 234. It should be noted that numerous shrines to Theseus were established in and around Athens during the Archaic and Classical periods, which has only confused the question of the Theseion’s location. At least one sanctuary to the hero had been built on the Mounichia hill in Piraeus, and it is possible that another had been established in the Attic plain, not far from the Long Walls. For a discussion of these monuments, see Conwell 2008, 11-12, n. 76; Garland 1987, 162-3, n. 162; Kearns 1989, 168-9. For the nature of the festival and games held in honor of Theseus, see Plut. Vit. Thes. 36; Connor 1970, 158-9; Walker 1995, 57). 189 Camp 2001, 66; Travlos 1971, 234, 578-9. 190 Paus. 1.17.2-3. 101 portrayed the hero in his defense of Attica against the invading Amazons, while the second recounted his battle with the centaurs at the wedding of Peirithoös.

The popularity of these mythic battles is well attested, and their appearance on the monuments and vases of the ancient world was more “than simple mythological story telling.”191 Rather, the stories lent themselves to “a thematic contrast or opposition” and so came to symbolize “the distinction between the trained warrior and the raging brute, between human skill and animal violence, or between civilization and savagery.”192 In the years following the Persian Wars, these scenes came to allude to the expulsion of

Xerxes’ armies and the Greek triumph over their barbarian invader.193 Theseus’ participation in these mythic battles resonated particularly strongly in Athens, where the hero was said to have aided the Athenians in their victory against the Persians at

Marathon.194 Kimon’s return of Theseus’ bones would have reinforced this connection, since it was Kimon’s father, Miltiades, who commanded the Athenian forces at

Marathon.195 But, Kimon’s return of the bones was not merely an acknowledgment of the city’s past accomplishments; it was also a recognition of its current military and political aspirations. As Jennifer Neils has suggested, the scenes chosen for the Theseion

“clearly tie in with Kimon’s policies of maintaining the fight against the Persians and increasing Athens’ naval power.”196

191 Neils 1987, 148. 192 Castriota 1992, 34. 193 Neils 1987, 148; Connor 1970, 156-7; Stewart 1990, 155. 194 Plut. Vit. Thes. 35.8. 195 Hdt. 6.103-4, 108-10; Neils 1987, 150; Connor 1970, 157, 162-4. 196 Neils 1987, 150. See also Castriota (1992, 34), who states, “The program of imagery [in the Theseion] was carefully selected and adjusted to mirror the larger military agenda of Athens and her League against the Persians in the Aegean, and to validate that agenda in moral or ethical terms.” 102 While the Centauromachy and Amazonomachy reasserted the continued Greek opposition to the Persians following their expulsion from mainland Greece, the predominantly naval characteristic of this campaign was more explicitly portrayed through the Theseion’s third mural.197 In his description, Pausanias records that the image on the third wall (τοῦ δὲ τρίτου τῶν τοίχων ἡ γραφὴ), which was painted by

Mikon, depicted Theseus’ retrieval of Minos’ ring from the bottom of the sea.198

According to the myth, Minos had become enamored with one of the Athenian maidens sent to be sacrificed to the Minotaur. While on their voyage back to Crete, Theseus intervened on behalf of the maiden in order to protect her from Minos’ advances. Minos, enraged by the youth’s boldness, challenged Theseus to prove his divine parentage by retrieving a ring that had been cast into the sea. Theseus immediately dove into the water and, having been escorted by dolphins to the under-water palace of Poseidon, returned not only with the ring, but also with a crown bestowed upon him by Amphitrite, thus confirming that he was the son of Poseidon.199

As mentioned in the previous chapter, scenes of Theseus’ underwater encounter with his divine father became increasingly popular on Attic red-figure vases during the first third of the 5th century, and many scholars have observed the increased popularity of

197 For the possibility of a fourth mural in the Theseion, see Brunn 1857-9, 24; Six 1919, 135-6; Barron 1972, 43-4; Castriota 1992, 33; Harrison 1974, 401; Simon 1976, 134. It is argued that the fourth scene may have presented the descent of Herakles into the underworld to rescue Theseus. Such an interpretation is based on Pausanias’ (1.17.4) brief allusion to the episode shortly after his description of the other three mural in the sanctuary; however, Pausanias makes no statement that directly connects this episode to the Theseion. 198 Paus. 1.17.2-3. 199 Pausanias (1.17.2-3) describes the myth, but the earliest and fullest literary account is recorded by Bacchylides in his 17th Ode, which was written in the first third of the 5th century. The myth was clearly known during the Archaic period, however, as it appears on numerous vase paintings of the late 6th and early 5th centuries (Shapiro 1994, 117; Mannack 1995, 109; Barron 1972, 40). 103 this myth in the years following the Persian defeat at Salamis and the establishment of the

Delian League as an allusion to Athens’ newly acquired naval supremacy. 200 While

Mikon’s painting may have portrayed a different moment in the tale, the representation of

Theseus’ visit to Poseidon’s palace served to connect the consummate Athenian hero with the god of the sea and the tutelary patron of the fleet.201 Kimon’s dramatic retrieval of Theseus’ bones after his conquest of Skyros reaffirmed and underscored this relationship.202 The construction of the Theseion “in the middle of the city” served as a clear and visible reminder not only of the hero’s centrality, but also of the rewards of

Athens’ new naval supremacy, and the associated portrayal of Theseus’ journey to the bottom of the sea further confirmed Poseidon’s continued protection of both the city and the fleet. The Theseion, Hölscher suggests, became “the new center of Athenian imperial identity,” and while the sanctuary recognized Athens’ hoplite and cavalry victories, it also prominently acknowledged and projected the city’s “dominion of the sea.”203

Such visible acknowledgement of the city’s naval power highlighted the fleet’s role in the civic activity and communal identity of the polis. The public buildings and

200 Shapiro 1994, 121; Shapiro 1992, 40; Pollitt 1987, 11; Neer 2002, 162; Harrison 1974, 401; Walker 1995, 58. See especially, Mills (1997), who argues, “By identifying with the national hero, every Athenian could have a share in the protection of Poseidon, whose relationship with Theseus must have seemed especially credible after the miraculous success of 480, and the choice of this scene as decoration of the wall of the Theseion is highly significant.” 201 The exact composition of Mikon’s painting in the Theseion is unclear. Pasuanias (1.17.3) mentions only that the scene would not be understood by those unfamiliar with the story, because Mikon did not portray the entire myth (τὰ δὲ Μίκων οὐ τὸν πάντα ἔγραψε λόγον). Numerous scholars (Brunn 1857-9, 24; Six 1919, 135-6;Schefold and Jung 1988, 240; Robertson 1975, 420; Brommer 1982, 81-2) have attempted to recreate the mural by comparing roughly contemporary vase-paintings of the scene, but such recreations are largely speculative and assume a problematic one-to-one correlation between wall painting and vase painting (Barron 1972, 40-1). Pausanias’ description of the mural is vague, as he tells the story of the myth, but not which part Mikon represented in the Theseion. It is interesting that Pasuanias does not mention Poseidon in his retelling; nevertheless, the god need not have been portrayed in the mural for his connection with Theseus to have been understood. 202 Shapiro 1992, 33. 203 Hölscher 1998, 161. 104 monuments erected over the course of the 5th century served as a reminder of the city’s increased wealth and power, and I would argue that that this prosperity was not understood as a consequence of Athens’ hoplite and cavalry campaigns alone.204 Rather, following the defeat of the Persians at Salamis, the navy, too, became integral to the social, military, and religious ideology through which the city defined itself, and I would suggest that the navy was carefully acknowledged in public monuments as part of

Athens’ civic identity. The monuments through which this connection was celebrated accordingly became a symbol of Athenian political dominance, but they would also represent the city’s despotism, particularly by the end of the Peloponnesian War. The

Thirty Tyrant’s reorientation of the Pnyx following the Peloponnesian Wars exemplified this relationship between Athenian civic ideology, monumentality, and the navy.205

Established shortly after the Kleisthenic reforms of 508/7, the Pnyx served as the meeting place for the newly created citizen assembly (ἐκκλησία). As such, it represented communal participation in the democracy, but to those opposed to Athenian democratic ideology or subject to Athenian supremacy in the 5th century, the Pnyx, instead, became a symbol of Athenian arrogance and oppression.206 The navy had become inseparably

204 For the impact of buildings and monuments and communal identity and civic ideology, see Favro 1996, 7-10; Elsner 1995, 125; Hölscher 1998, 155-7; Siewart 1992, 3-17. 205 For this story, see Plut. Vit. Them. 19.3-6. 206 The theater-like assembly of the Pnyx had three building phases, the first of which dates to sometime around the end of the 6th century, and so can be linked to the Kleisthenic reforms and the establishment of democracy in Athens. For the remains of this first phase, see Travlos 1971, 466; Kourouniotes and Thompson 1932, 96-113. Thompson (l982, 134-8) later suggested that phase I of the Pnyx be down-dated to the middle of the fifth-century, based on a horos stone found in the 19th century. This stone, however, was not discovered in a secure archaeological context and has been dated solely by letter type. In addition to the difficulties inherent in such methods of dating, there is little that suggests the stone marker was erected at the time of the initial construction of the Pnyx. Despite Thompson’s assertion, it is still commonly accepted that the Pnyx was laid out at roughly the same time as Kleisthenes’ reforms (Camp 2001, 264-5). Despite these uncertainties, the use of the Pnyx during the 5th century is well attested by literary sources and archaeological remains. For early literary accounts, see Kourouniotes and Thompson 105 linked with this oppression and the democracy that engendered it, and so the Thirty

Tyrants, in an effort to symbolically sever this connection, turned the speaker’s platform away from the sea, “thinking that power derived from the sea was the cause of democracy.”207

While several scholars dispute the validity of this tale, it is neither unbelievable nor implausible, and the archaeological evidence supports it.208 The destruction of the

Long Walls and the dismantling of the ship-sheds illustrate the systematic strategy of monumental destruction undertaken by the Thirty Tyrants, and the reorientation of the

Pnyx would not be out of line with this strategy.209 Regardless of the story’s validity, however, it demonstrates the considerable symbolic and political impact that the monuments and buildings of Athens had on its public self-image and identity.210

Anthony Smith has argued that monuments “bear witness to and express a sense of

1932, 109-113. For the archaeological remains for the various phases of the Pnyx, see Davidson, Thompson, and Thompson 1943. 207 οἰόµενοι τὴν µὲν κατὰ θάλατταν ἀρχὴν γένεσιν εἶναι δηµοκρατίας (Plut. Vit. Them. 19.6). For a discussion of Plutarch’s account and the archaeological evidence for the reorientation of the Pnyx under the Thirty Tyrants, see Krentz 1982, 62. The Pnyx was not the only Athenian monument to be purposefully oriented toward the sea. The bronze statue of Athena on the Acropolis also appears to have been turned slightly to face Salamis in recognition of the goddess’ role in the Greek victory in the battle (Hurwit 1999, 152). 208 See in particular, Moysey (1981, 31-7), who suggests that the Pnyx was not reoriented until after the reestablishment of democracy in Athens in 403/2 BCE. While few scholars support Moysey’s opinion, many question the motivation for the reorientation of the Pnyx. As R. E. Wycherley (1978, 61) rather bluntly argues, “[Plutarch’s story] does not sound very convincing.” Nevertheless, Wycherley must admit that the “archaeological evidence shows that at the end of the fifth century the assembly was indeed reversed, so that the bema faced north and the audience was accommodated on a great embankment facing southward – a very unusual arrangement since theaters and theater-like structures were seldom made in defiance of the natural contours.” 209 Krentz 1984, 231; Krentz 1982, 62-8; Moysey 1981, 33-4. 210 As Tonio Hölscher (1998, 181-2) has argued, “Political monuments, secular as well as religious, were used here in an explicit and systematic way to create political identity…Monumental works of art were used everywhere in Greece to adorn public areas and buildings, but the Athenians adopted art in uniquely systematic and ambitious ways to define the specific character of public spaces. As a result, monumentalizing and perpetuating with works of art the glory of her great citizens and their famous achievements, Athens gradually developed into a monument of her own historical identity. 106 unique identity,” and in just such a way, Athens expressed and promoted its naval identity through the monumentalization and transformation of the city’s visual landscape.211 While ship iconography may not have been specifically utilized in the monuments and buildings of the city, its absence was not due to an attempt to veil or conceal the considerable impact the fleet had on the Athenian community. I have argued here that Athens, in fact, embraced its naval identity. And this identity was projected not just within the city, but also throughout the Aegean. In the decades following the Persian

Wars, the Athenians depicted Boreas on their temple at Delos, constructed a stoa at

Delphi to display the spoils of their naval campaigns, and erected an elaborate temple of

Poseidon at Sounion.212 Indeed, so closely related were the city and its fleet that the

Athenian painter Panainos even chose to include an image of Salamis holding a ship’s prow on the barriers beneath the throne of Zeus at the panhellenic sanctuary of

Olympia.213 Far from concealing its connection to the fleet, Athens embraced and projected its naval image throughout Attica and the Aegean.

211 Smith 1986, 187. 212 The central akroterion of the eastern end of the temple depicted the abduction of Oreithyia by Boreas. For the remains of this sculpture and the temple of the Athenians, see Courby 1931, 220-5; Gallet de Santerre 1959, 23-42; Picard 1939, vol. 2 788-9, 794-6 with fig. 318; Wester 1969, 188-9. For the Stoa of the Athenians at Delphi, see, in particular, Amandry 1953. The inscription on the stoa makes clear that the Athenians used the building for the display of stern-ornaments from ships captured or destroyed during naval campaigns (Ἀθεναῖοι ἀνέθεσαν…τἀκροτέρια hελόντες τν πολε[µίο]ν), and Pausanias’ (10.11.6) account of the structure reaffirms this use (ἀνάκειται δὲ καὶ πλοίων τὰ ἄκρα κοσµήµατα). Despite the considerable debate surrounding the date of the structure, it is clear that the building was in use during at least the last quarter of the 5th century, though it may date as early as 470 BCE. For an overview of this debate, see Walsh 1986, 319-20. For the temple of Poseidon at Sounion, which was constructed between 444-440 BCE, see Staïs 1920; Tataki 1994; Dinsmoor 1971; Plommer 1950; Plommer 1960. Interestingly, the temple of Poseidon at Sounion was paired with a temple of Athena, reinforcing the connection between the god of the sea and the patron deity of the city of Athens. For the temple of Athena, see Dinsmoor 1971; Tataki 1994; Staïs 1917. 213 Paus. 5.11.5 (καὶ Σαλαµὶς ἔχουσα ἐν τῇ χειρὶ τὸν ἐπὶ ταῖς ναυσὶν ἄκραις ποιούµενον κόσµον). The iconography of this scene was likely similar to the images of Athena holding a stern-ornament, which began to appear in the mid-5th century. For such scenes, see Neer 2002, 164; Webster 1972, 75-6; Hausmann 1957, 144-51. 107 Public commemoration serves as a defining aspect of polis imaginary, and 5th century Athens was visibly and dramatically transformed by the monuments erected to commemorate and nurture its naval identity. While the monuments and buildings of

Athens celebrated the navy, the written sources of the 5th century did not treat the navy nearly so positively nor consistently. The following chapter addresses the literary treatment of the Athenian navy and proposes that it became increasingly cynical in its treatment of the navy over the course of the 5th century. I will argue that despite this cynicism, a negative portrayal of the navy was far from universal, and while increased

Athenian expansionism led to an uneasy relationship between ancient writers and the fleet, it was still recognized that the navy and its oarsmen provided security and prosperity for the city.

108 Chapter 4: “Master of the Ship:” Naval Identity and 5th Century Athenian Literature

Synopsis:

The previous chapter examined the prominent position of naval imagery in the public monuments and buildings of Classical Athens and argued that throughout the 5th century this public commemoration of the navy remained consistently positive. In this chapter, I will investigate the position of the navy in 5th-century Athenian literary works.

The literary output of Athenian authors during this period was notably rich and abundant.

Over the course of the century, the plays of Euripides, Aristophanes, Aeschylus, and

Aristophanes were produced and Thucydides composed his history. Because the scope of these works is too great for this current project, I have chosen to focus on Aeschylus’

Persians, the Knights of Aristophanes, and the Melian Dialogue from Thucydides’ history. While other works from the 5th century, such as Euripides’ Trojan Women, comment on contemporary naval concerns, these are metaphoric and veiled references, whereas the three works with which I am concerned in this chapter address the navy directly. In addition, I have limited my discussion to literary works written by Athenian citizens. For this reason, I have largely excluded Herodotus from considerations of the role of the navy in civic identity during the 5th century. By examining these three works in the order in which they were composed, I will argue that the navy was not, as is commonly argued, universally or consistently disparaged by Athenian authors. Rather, this chapter will suggest that the perception and presentation of the navy changed dramatically in the nearly hundred years between the victory at Salamis and the city’s

109 eventual defeat at the hands of the Peloponnesians. Further, even sources that express concern about the use of the fleet reflect some ambivalence regarding the navy itself.

Such conclusions will highlight the complex position that the fleet held in the social identity of the Athenian polis throughout the Classical period.

110 The Athenian navy, and the men who manned it, maintained a prominent, and largely positive, presence in the visual landscape of Athens throughout the 5th century, despite the claim that there were “real limits to the ability of the thetes to stamp their image on Athenian public culture.”1 While the monumentalization of the city during the

Classical period visually reinforced the city’s strong connection to the sea, the literary reaction to the city’s naval power was neither as consistent nor as complimentary as the public commemoration of the fleet. The writings of the “Old-Oligarch” and Plato certainly present a less than flattering appraisal of the city’s naval interests, and they exemplify two kinds of obstacles in dealing with the literary sources concerned with the

Athenian navy.

Writing in the first half of the 4th century, Plato asserts that “sea-battles”

(θάλατταν µάχην) actually made the Athenians “worse” (οὐ βελτίους)2 and contends that

“those cities reliant upon seafaring for their power, in exchange for their safety, give rewards not to the best of their fighters: having become reliant upon the art of the steersman, the captain, and the rowers, and upon men of all sorts and not very virtuous”

(Leg. 707a-b).3 Plato’s aggressively negative presentation of the city’s reliance on its navy and his criticism of the men who man the fleet have led to the scholarly conclusion that the navy was largely disdained by the Athenian populace as a whole, even though

1 Strauss 1996, 321. 2 Pl. Leg. 707c. 3 …αἱ διὰ τὰ ναυτικὰ πόλεων δυνάµεις ἅµα σωτηρίᾳ τιµὰς οὐ τῷ καλλίστῳ τῶν πολεµικῶν ἀποδιδόασιν· διὰ κυβερνητικῆς γὰρ καὶ πεντηκονταρχίας και ἐρετικῆς, καὶ παντοδαπῶν καὶ οὐ πάνυ σπουδαίων ἀνθρώπων γιγνοµένης… (Pl. Leg. 707a-b). 111 Plato’s writings represent an individual, and largely anti-democratic perspective.4

Despite such a vitriolic treatment, however, it is far from clear that the nautai were considered inferior to hoplites and cavalrymen throughout the entirety of the 5th century.

By the beginning of the 4th century, Athens had achieved the height of its power, been defeated by the Peloponnesians, succumbed to tyranny, and renewed its democracy.

Such traumatic social and political transformations would have dramatically altered the perception of the fleet in the city’s identity in the following century. Reliance on such non-contemporary sources is inherently problematic, since, as we have seen, the manner in which the navy was presented and perceived over the course of the 5th century and into the 4th was far from unchanging.5 The projection of such an ostensibly negative, Platonic view of the Athenian sailor back onto the social, political, and cultural organizations of the 5th century is then somewhat misleading and oversimplified.

While relying on Plato’s treatment of the navy risks anachronism when talking about the fifth century, the “Old-Oligarch” presents another kind of problem when working with the literary sources in this context. Likely writing in the last quarter of the

5th century, the “Old-Oligarch” offers a more closely contemporary view that departs from the public image of the navy presented by the monuments considered in the

4 See, for example, Hanson (1996, 305-306), who suggests that even the thetic participants in the navy were disparaging of their role, so much so that they “envied and thus sought to reconstitute the ‘hoplite mirage.’” Strauss (1996 321-322) tempers Hanson’s conclusion, and allows for thetic pride in their military accomplishments; nevertheless, he too accepts the predominance and primacy of hoplite imagery. 5 For an illustration of how an individual, event, or group could be re-imagined, re-invented, or re- interpreted over the course of a century, see Euben’s (1986) analysis of the changing treatment and reception of the battle of Salamis. See also Jung (2006, 384-97), who notes that the memory evoked by objects and events invariably changes over time, shaped by the varying social, cultural, and political concerns of subsequent generations. 112 previous chapter.6 Rather than praising the accomplishments of the Athenian navy, the

“Old-Oligarch” refers to those who man the fleet, and so control the constitution, as

“worthless” (πονηροὺς), “poor” (οἱ πένητες), and “common” (ὁ δῆµος),7 neither

“wealthy” (οἱ πλούσιοι) nor “useful” (οἱ χρηστοί),8 but possessing “the greatest ignorance” (ἀµαθία πλείστη), “indiscipline” (ἀταξία), and “wickedness” (πονηρία).9

As with Plato, this harsh treatment of the navy has caused scholars to conclude that the navy had held a tenuous place in Athenian civic identity since its inception. Kurt

Raaflaub, for instance, depending heavily on the writing of the “Old-Oligarch,” has concluded that “despite their great merits, in status and prestige the nautai clearly were considered inferior to the hoplites and horsemen.”10 The 5th century date of the “Old-

Oligarch’s” treatise presents a contemporary criticism of the Athenian naval establishment that contradicts the positive commemoration of the fleet discussed in the previous chapter. As such, his work complicates assumptions about a monolithic

Athenian view of the navy as entirely positive or entirely negative. His work illustrates that divergent opinions of the navy existed even within fifth-century Athens. As Hans van Wees has noted, even at times when the navy was viewed positively, “there were always those who disagreed and argued that the hoplite army or even the hoplite

6 As Marr and Rhodes (2008, 3-4) note, “there is no external evidence for the date of this work” and so “in attempting to date it…we are wholly reliant on internal indications.” Based on such “internal indications,” Marr and Rhodes suggest a date between 425-424. Bowersock (1968, 463-5) however, proposes a date in the late 440’s (likely 443-441), while Hornblower (2000, 366) argues that the pamphlet is “a product of the fourth century but with a carefully crafted dramatic date in the fifth.” The fourth-century date suggested by Hornblower has not garnered much scholarly support, and a conservative dating sometime in the last quarter of the 5th century seems most convincing. 7 Xen. [Ath. pol.] 1.1-2. 8 Xen. [Ath. pol.] 1.4. 9 Xen. [Ath. pol.] 1.5. 10 Raaflaub 1996, 157. See also, Raaflaub 1994, 138-139. 113 marines were more important than the rowers.”11 Reliance on the “Old-Olgarch” alone, however, greatly limits and skews our understanding of the position of the rowers in Classical Athens and overlooks the myriad 5th century sources that represent the navy in far from negative terms.

In a more recent study that depends heavily on such contemporary 5th century sources, for example, David Pritchard has concluded that despite the central role the heavily-armed hoplite held in the formation of Athenian ideas of bravery, gallantry, and martial performance, there was still an “overwhelmingly positive judgment of maritime pursuits” in Classical Athens.12 Not only does Pritchard highlight what he sees as a very positive opinion of seamanship in the literary output of the 5th century, but he also maintains that the navy enjoyed this positive position in the Athenian imaginary consistently throughout the 5th century.13 Pritchard’s argument is particularly appealing given the preponderance of naval imagery in the written works of the Classical period, and my own conclusions laid out in the previous chapters. As he himself points out, “by far the largest class of imagery in the extant works of Athenian playwrights is drawn out of the world of nautical affairs.”14 Pritchard’s argument illustrates that while the hoplites maintained a “central and normative position” in the Athenian imaginary, the navy, and the men who served in it, were not necessarily viewed as “inferior” to their heavily- armed counterparts.15

11 Van Wees 1995, 161. 12 Pritchard 1999, 165. See also Pritchard 1998, 53-5. 13 For the quotation, see Pritchard 1999, 180. For the consistency of naval reception over the course of the 5th century, see Pritchard 1999, 244. 14 Pritchard 1999, 166. 15 Pritchard 1999, 233, 246. 114 Although the idea that the Athenian imaginary could maintain opposing and contradictory views of the city’s military organizations is one of the premises of

Pritchard’s treatment of the literary works of the 5th century, his work continues to be based on the assumption that Athenian self-identity remained consistent from the closing decades of the 6th century well into the 4th century.16 As he argues, any serious reformation of Athenian self-identity would have simply been “too difficult to achieve.”17

Such a conclusion, however, raises questions, particularly given the dramatic social and political upheaval that occurred over the course of the 5th century, and given the views of a writer like the “Old-Oligarch.” I suggest here that, instead, there was the potential for the expression of conflicting, changing, and nuanced views of the navy even within the single context of the fifth-century Athenian imaginary.

As Peter Euben has suggested, by the end of the 5th century, the Athenians realized, as collective law-givers, their “capacity to envision the world other than as it

[was] and reconstitute the world to realize that vision.” This belief is integral to discussions of Athenian imaginary.18 As in the previous chapters, it is not the intention of this chapter, or this dissertation, to argue against the prominent and normative position that the hoplite maintained in Athenian self-identity; rather, this chapter aims to show that a society’s apprehension and expression of its identity is far from consistent or monolithic, and can diverge even in a single historical moment.

16 Pritchard 1998, 50-52. See also Strauss 1996, 322. 17 Pritchard 1998, 52. In a later work, Pritchard (1999, 246), likewise maintains that it would have been “very difficult” to revise or redefine “key pillars of Athenian self-identity.” See also Strauss (1996, 322), who similarly argues that Athenian self-identity was “traditional” to the point that the manner in which they perceived themselves remained steady and consistent, despite changing socio-political concerns. 18 Euben 1986, 376. 115 The image of the Athenian navy in the literary sources of the 5th century illustrates this complex aspect of the public imaginary. While the public commemoration of the city’s navy discussed in the previous chapter was both prominent and positive throughout the 5th century, the literary record of the Classical period reveals an increased uneasiness and cynicism with the fleet and those men who manned it. In this chapter I show that, while the fleet remains a prominent theme in literary works of this period, the perception of its role in the cultural identity of the city changed considerably over the course of the 5th century.

Part 4.1: “Lain Low by the Ramming Ships:” Aeschylus’ Persians and Naval Imagery after Salamis

In his Histories, Herodotus finds himself “compelled to bring forward an opinion which [he knows] is hateful to the majority of men” (7.139.1).19 Despite these reservations, he refuses to “hold back” (οὐκ ἐπισχήσω) his observations, because he believes them to be “true” (ἀληθές). The historian continues these observations, which involve the critical role the newly acquired Athenian navy played in the expulsion of the

Persians from Greece.20 His conclusion is quite straightforward: in the Persian Wars,

“the Athenians had been the saviors of Greece” (7.139.5).21 While certainly not universal, this passage highlights what most Athenians likely felt in the wake of the battle

19 …ἐξέργοµαι γνώµην ἀποδέξασθαι ἐπίφθονον µὲν πρὸς τῶν πλεόνων ἀνθρώπων…(7.139.1). 20 Hdt. 7.139. 21 …Ἀθηναίους ἂν τις λέγων σωτῆρας γενέσθαι τῆς Ἑλλάδος…(Hdt. 7.139.5). 116 at Salamis and in the years following the Persian Wars.22 Few contemporary literary sources, however, survive from those years immediately following the expulsion of the

Persians from Greece in 479. Herodotus’ own account dates from the second half of the

5th century, and with the exception of Aeschylus, Pindar and Bacchylides represent the greatest surviving output of the period – of these, only Aeschylus was an Athenian.23

Because of the limited survival of the literary works of the 470’s, Aeschylus’ Persians remains one of the most important sources for Athenian perception and representation of the navy immediately following the victory at Salamis.

Presented in Athens in 473/2 (only eight years after Salamis), Aeschylus’

Persians is considered unique among surviving Greek tragedies because it presents an event that is based not in mythology, but in recent history.24 Despite this unique status among extant sources, the Persians was not the first Athenian tragedy to take historical events as its theme. As early as 493, the Athenian tragedian Phrynichos had presented

22 See West (1970, 282), who argues that the Athenians promoted Salamis “as a victory for which she was chiefly responsible” for the better part of the 5th century. West, like Herodotus, notes that most other poleis would have “resented this as a distortion of glory common to all.” For the problematic nature of Herodotus 7.139, see Fornara 1971, 46-7. 23 The date of the “publication,” or at least “completion,” of Herodotus’ history remains a point of some contention. Scholarly consensus dates the work to sometime between 430 and 425, as the latest securely dated event to which Herodotus refers is the Archidamian War (9.73-74), which began in 431/430 and continued until 421/420. The Archidamian War, then, provides a terminus post quem of 430/431. In addition, a reference in Aristophanes’ Acharnians (85-87), which was performed in 425, is thought to be a parody of Herodotus’ work, and so is commonly viewed as a terminus ante quem for the “completion” of the Histories. For this canonical date of Herodotus’ Histories, see Meister 1990, 26; Cobet 1977, 20-4; and Jacoby 1913, 9. Charles Fornara (1971, 34; 1981, 155-6) has suggested that Herodotus was writing as late as the end of the Archidamian War and possibly as late as 414 (cf. Sansone 1985, 7-9). Finally, James Evans has suggested a “publication” date of 424 (2006, 89-90; 1979, 149), though he warns that ideas of “publication” are misplaced and suggests that “it is sensible to believe that parts of the Histories may have been in the public domain before the work was finished as a whole” (1991, 90; cf. Evans 1982, 15-6). Regardless of the exact date of the work’s completion, no scholar suggests that the Histories were released before 440, and the four decades which had lapsed since the Greek victory at Salamis saw a substantial shift in pan-Hellenic relations that would have considerably altered and affected perceptions of Salamis, the navy, and Athens as a whole. As such, it is difficult to use such sources as reliable representations of Athenian self-perception in the period between 470 and 440. 24 Garvie 2009, ix. 117 his Capture of Miletus, which recounted the sack of the Ionian city at the hands of the

Persians in 494.25 So moving was this play that the Athenian audience “burst into tears”

(ἐς δάκρυά τε ἔπεσε) at the retelling of the suffering of the Milesians.26 They subsequently fined the playwright 1000 drachmas for reminding them of “their own misfortunes” (οἰκήια κακὰ) and “ordered him to never again use that particular play”

(ἐπέταξαν µηκέτι µηδένα χρᾶσθαι τούτῳ τῷ δράµατι).27 These setbacks not withstanding, Phrynichos returned to historical tragedy sometime between 479 and 473 with his Phoenician Women, a play that, like Aeschylus’ Persians, recounted the story of the Persian defeat at Salamis.28 While only fragments of this work survive, the hypothesis to Aeschylus’ Persians asserts that “Glaukos, in his works concerning the myths of Aeschylus, says that the Persians was adapted from the Phoenician Women of

25 Herodotus (6.18-22) describes the sack of Miletus by the Persians and mentions Phrynichos’ tragedy, which he calls the Μιλήτου ἅλωσιν (6.21.2). Both Plutarch (Mor. 814b5) and Aelian (VH 13.17) likewise preserve the title τὴν Μιλήτου ἅλωσιν, though there has been some question as to the accuracy of this name (Rosenbloom 2006, 166 n. 32). The date of the play’s production has also come under scrutiny. David Rosenbloom (2006, 20; 1993, 168-176) conservatively dates the work to sometime between 494/3 and 491/0, though a date following the sack of Athens in 480/79 has also been suggested (Roisman 1988, 8; Badian 16 n. 44). See also Podlecki 1966, 14; 158 n. 18. 26 Hdt. 6.21.2. 27 Hdt. 6.21.2. See also Plutarch (Mor. 814b5), who likewise mentions the fine placed on Phrynichos, and Aelian (VH 13.17), who recounts that the audience was moved to tears by the performance. 28 The date for this production is commonly given as 476 due to a reference in Plutarch’s Life of Themistokles (5.5), in which he asserts that in that year, the statesman was the “choregos” (ἐχορήγει) of an unnamed work “produced” (ἐδίδασκεν) by Phrynichos. This play has commonly been identified as the Phoenician Women, but as Rosenbloom (2006, 168 n. 82; cf. Garvie 2009, x) notes, “the date is certain; the play is not.” Michael Gagarin (1976, 29) suggests only that the play was produced sometime between the battle of Salamis and the performance of Aeschylus’ own Persians in 472, and without more specific information, it is difficult to date Phrynichos’ work with any certainty. As with the Sack of Miletus, the title of Phyrnichos’ Phoenician Women is also uncertain. The late 5th century writer Glaukos of Rhegium, who is quoted in the hypothesis of Aeschylus’ Persians calls the work the Phoenissai (ἐκ τῶν Φοινισσῶν), but there is some indication that the work was called Δίκαιοι ἢ Πέρσαι ἢ Ζύνθωκοι (Garvie 2009, x with n. 4). Regardless of the play’s title, it is clear that the piece centered around the roughly contemporary defeat of the Persians, and not a mythological topic. 118 Phrynichos.”29 The hypothesis likewise mentions that a eunuch – not, as in the Persians, a messenger – announces the defeat to a group of Persian elders. Even so, it is clear that in the Pheonician Women, as in Aeschylus’ work, the central theme is the Persian response to the defeat of Xerxes. 30

While the exact nature of Phrynichos’ play is uncertain, a passage in Plutarch’s

Life of Themistokles has led many scholars to contend that the statesman responsible for the transformation of Athens into a naval power was also behind the production of the

Phoenician Women.31 The connection is certainly tempting, particularly given the play’s supposed emphasis on the victory at Salamis.32 Themistokles’ fall from popularity in the years following 480 is well attested, and it would not be surprising for the statesman to seek the benefit of a public reminder of his success at Salamis by sponsoring a play that commemorated and praised the battle. 33 In addition, the play’s emphasis on the

Salaminian victory would have reinforced the city’s newly acquired naval identity and

29 Γλαῦκος ἐν τοῖς περὶ Αἰσχύλου µύθων ἐκ τῶν Φοινισσῶν Φρυνίχου φησὶ τοὺς Πέρσας παραπεποιῆσθαι (TrGF I DID C 2, III Testimonia Gc 55a). The hypothesis to Aeschylus’ Persians has been attributed by Garvie (2009, 3-4; 1969, 17) to Aristophanes of Byzantium, who likely had access to Aristotle’s Didascaliae. Garvie likewise suggests that the Glaukos mentioned in the hypothesis was probably Glaukos of Rhegium, a writer of the late 5th century. While it is commonly accepted that the hypothesis is accurate in its assertion that Aeschylus derived his work from Phrynichos, Scott Scullion (2002, 98) warns that “the evidence of this hypothesis ought in my view to be treated with great caution.” However, Scullion’s suggestion that Phrynichos’ work more likely imitated Aeschylus’ because he would have been hesitant to produce another historical work after the response to the Capture of Miletus is not entirely convincing. 30 TrGF I DID C 2, III Testimonia Gc 55a. 31 Plut. Vit.Them. 5.5. Plutarch’s passage mentions only that Themistokles “produced” a play for which Phrynichos was the “poet” – it does not, however, mention the name of the play (Rosenbloom 2006, 168 n. 82). Despite this problem, it has commonly been accepted that the play to which Plutarch refers was the Phoenician Women. See, for example, Garvie 2009, x-xi; Gagarin 1976, 29-30; Rosenbloom 2006, 34-5; Podlecki 1966, 14-5. 32 Stroessl 1952, 116-8; Stroessl 1945,160-2; Rosenbloom 2006, 32. 33 For Themistokles’ fall from grace, see Thuc. 1.136-8; Plut. Vit.Them. 22-29; Diod. Sic. 11.55-8. For the quotation, see Rosenbloom 2006, 33-5. See also Podlecki 1966, 14-5 and Meier 1993, 62-3. 119 served to firmly establish the position of the sailors in the public imaginary of Athens.34

Although these interpretations of Phrynichos’ historical tragedies are indeed attractive, such conclusions are difficult to maintain because only a few fragments of his works survive from antiquity.35

While the fragmentary nature of Phrynichos’ works makes certainty impossible,

Aeschylus’ Persians presents a far more secure (and complete) text from which we might glean the Athenian perception of its new naval identity following Salamis. Produced in

473/2, the Persians, like the Phoenician Women, takes the Greek victory at Salamis as its central theme.36 The first line acknowledges Aeschylus’ dependence on Phrynichos’ play; it has long been held to be a direct reference, if not a dramatic nod, to the first line of the Pheonician Women.37 In Aeschylus, as in Phrynichos, the prominence afforded

Salamis reflects a developing pride in, and even assertion of, Athens’ naval identity.

Aeschylus may have had a vested interest in this new civic self-perception and self- presentation, as the playwright was likely a witness of, if not a participant in, the actual battle.38 Indeed, one cannot help but detect the voice of the author in the messenger’s

34 As Gagarin (1976, 30) argues, the presentation of the Phoenician Women “would undoubtedly have inspired support for the Athenian policy of naval strength and for Themistocles.” 35 Garvie 2009, x-xi. 36 For the date of the play’s production, see the hypothesis, which states that the play was performed during the archonship of Menon (ἐπὶ Μένωνος). 37 The first line of Phrynichos’ work is preserved in the hypothesis and reads, τάδ’ ἐστὶ Περσῶν τῶν πάλαι Βεβηκότων (TrGF I DID C 2, III Testimonia Gc 55a), while the first line of the Persians differs appreciably in only one word, τάδ’ µὲν Περσῶν τῶν οἰχοµένων (Pers. 1). As Podlecki (1966, 14-5) notes, “[Aeschylus] did not hesitate to borrow from his predecessor not only content, but even matters of phrasing.” See Kitto 1961, 34 (with references) for the idea that Aeschylus’ adaption of this line was “‘a courtesy-salute’” to his predecessor. 38 Ion of Chios, FGH 392 F7 (with n. 62); Pausanias 1.14.5. For the likelihood of Aeschylus’ presence at Salamis, see Wallinga 2006, 97. 120 claim that “having been present and not having heard the words of others, Persians, I can indicate what sort of evil was provided” (266-7).39

Because these lines communicate an air of authority and accuracy, Aeschylus’

Persians has long been used as a historical source for the closing years of the Persian

Wars.40 The use of historical drama as history, though, presents difficulties, since the genre lends itself to the adaptation and transformation of an event to accommodate a more familiar “mythic mode” – that is, the author of the historical tragedy, in a sense,

“mythologizes” history, and, as a result, its historical accuracy is not necessarily a priority.41 Rather, as Edith Hall suggests, “in order to understand the play fully, it needs to be read as a document of the Athenian collective imagination.”42 As such, while the play may not precisely record historical details, the central role of the victory at Salamis in the play does illustrate the prominent position of the navy within that “collective imagination.” The primacy of the naval victory saturates the work, so that the Persian elders bemoan that they “now, without dispute, bear anew the god-turned fortunes from war, having been conquered by the blows of the sea” (905-6). 43 Even Xerxes’ final laments are given in purely naval terms. He moans not as a hoplite or horseman beaten on the field of battle, but as a rower defeated at sea. He commands the chorus of elders

39 καὶ µὴν παρών γε κοὐ λόγους ἄλλων κλύων,/ Πέρσαι, φράσσιµ’ οἷ’ ἐπορσύνθη κακά (Pers. 266-7). The emphasis is my own, though reflects Aeschylus’ use of the particle µὴν. 40 For an overview of the scholarly tradition surrounding the historicity of the Persians, see Garvie 2009, 181-4 and Conacher 1996, 5 n. 4. 41 Burian 1997, 186; Conacher 1996, 3-6. 42 Hall 2010, 202. 43 νῦν δ’ οὐκ ἀµφιλόγως θεότρεπτα τάδ’ αὖ φέροµεν πολέµοισι,/ δµαθέντες µεγάλως πλαγαῖσι ποντίαισιν (Pers. 905-6). For the overwhelmingly naval character of the work, see Gagarin (1976, 35), who rather bluntly makes states, “This emphasis is so frequent and obvious that it is unnecessary to examine specific passages.” 121 to “row, row and groan deeply for [his] sake” (1046),44 and in his final lamentation, he cries, “woe, woe, in the triple tholepins, woe, woe those lost in the ships” (1074-5).45

The mourning of the defeated Persians situates the Greek victory firmly in the context of their naval accomplishments.46

That the sea-battle at Salamis is the central focus of the play, and that the work commemorates the efforts of the navy and its sailors, is without question, but the infantry is not entirely absent. Aeschylus also gives some attention to the infantry skirmish at

Psytalleia (441-472), which coincided with the naval battle. The messenger explains that a troop of Persian soldiers “who were in the full bloom of their strength, excellent in spirit, and distinguished in nobility” (441-2)47 were placed on the small island near

Salamis to either attack the ship-wrecked Greeks or rescue their own stranded friends

(450-3). As the naval battle turned in favor of the Greeks, however, these Persian troops were deserted on the island without hope of assistance from their scattered and fleeing fleet. A troop of Greek soldiers, “fencing [the Persians] in with weapons of fine bronze, leapt from their ships” (456-7)48 and subsequently slaughtered the small force abandoned

44 ἔρεσσ’ ἔρεσσε καὶ στέναζ’ ἐµὰν χάριν (Pers. 1046). 45 ἰὼ ἰὼ Περσὶς αἶα δύσβατος./ ἠὴ ἠὴ βάρισιν ὀλόµενοι (1074-5). Lillian Lawler (1944, 31) has interestingly suggested that the chorus here may have actually imitated the motion of rowing a ship. He argues that this may have been a common practice as part of a ritual dance known as the κελευστής, which may haven been regularly performed by rowers. In this scene in particular, such a dance would further reinforce the naval character of the Persians’ lamentation. The verb ἐρέσσω, in fact, carries this double meaning. It can refer both to rowing ships and beating one’s arms in lamentation. While this would add an interesting visual character to Aeschylus’ words, as Lawler notes, “we really know nothing of the dance, and can only conjecture as to its nature.” 46 See Anderson (1972, 174), who notes, “the weeping and lamentation in the desolate city becomes one with the imagery of slaughter and destruction at Salamis, at Psyttalea, and in the crossing of the Strymon.” The importance of the skirmish at Psytalleia will be discussed below. 47 Περσῶν ὅσοιπερ ἧσαν ἀκµαῖοι φύσιν,/ ψυχήν τ’ ἄριστοι κεὐγένειαν ἐκπρεπεῖς…(Pers. 441-2). 48 …αὐθηµερὸν φάρξαντες εὐχάλκοις δέµας/ ὅπλοισι ναὠν ἐξέθρωισκον…(Pers. 456-7). 122 on the island. The inclusion of this relatively minor infantry engagement in the otherwise naval-themed Persians is somewhat puzzling, and has led to considerable debate concerning the reasons for its inclusion. Herodotus attributes the entire engagement to

Aristeides, the erstwhile opponent of Themistokles, and so sets up an interesting conflict between the democratic, naval policies of Themistokles and the oligarchic, hoplite leanings of Aristeides.49

The stark dichotomy established by Herodotus, however, is exaggerated and not entirely indicative either of the immediacy of the actual battle or of Aeschylus’ motives for including the encounter in the Persians.50 Even so, some have claimed that

Aeschylus includes and exaggerates the importance of this action in order to glorify the hoplites because they, “as opposed to the despised ‘sailor rabble’…had so far done nothing at Salamis.”51 Green has argued that “honour demanded” a hoplite victory or that “propagandists had to make what they could of this somewhat unpromising material”

49 Hdt. 8.95 (see also Plut. Vit. Arist. 9.1-2). For the contest between Themistokles and Aristeides, see Hdt. 8.78-9. For the continuing debate surrounding the political implications of this scene in Herodotus and Aeschylus, see Rosenbloom 2006, 72-5; Pelling 1997, 8-9; Podlecki 1966, 23-5; Fornara 1966, 51-4. This interpretation is further complicated by Perikles’ role as choregos of the Persians in 472 (IG II2 2318). Given Perikles’ position as a political supporter of the embattled Themistokles, Aeschylus’ play is commonly considered an attempt by the playwright and Perikles to rekindle Themistokles’ popularity among the people by reminding them of the victory at Salamis, a victory for which Themistokles was largely credited (Rosenbloom 2006, 34-5; Forrest 1960, 236; Podlecki 1966, 23-5). While such interpretations are intriguing and at times compelling, Pelling (1997, 9-11) is right to caution that “scepticism is called for” when looking for such direct political associations (see also Conacher 1996, 18 n. 32; Garvie 2009, xix). Pickard-Cambridge’s (1968, 90) cautious skepticism is probably best suited for this discussion. There is little doubt that some political influence traded hands between choregoi and playwrights, but “little material exists for investigating the problem of how far the choregos actually concerned himself with the content of the play.” See also Pelling 1997, 10. 50 For considerations of Herodotus’ treatment of this episode and his possible motivations, see Podlecki (1966, 24-5), who argues that “[Herodotus] never tires of retailing anecdotes to illustrate hostilities between [Themistokles and Aristeides].” See also Burn 1984, 454-5. 51 Green 1996, 196. For similar assessments of the need to glorify the hoplites, see Loraux 1986, 161; Hignett 1963, 238; Burn 1984, 467. 123 – namely, the relatively small engagement at Psytalleia.52 Aeschylus does indeed acknowledge the land engagement at Psytalleia with as much enthusiasm, if not as much emphasis, as he does the accompanying naval battle. The Persian messenger says that at

Psytalleia, “such disastrous misfortune came upon [the Persian men on the island] that it outweighed [the Persian men on the sea] twice on the balancing of the scale” (436-7).53

As an extension of this, Aeschylus’ simplified definition of the Persian Wars as a contest between the Greek spear and the Persian bow (ln. 82-5, 149-50) has often been viewed as

“constructing an opposition between the Athenian hoplite warrior (and the values associated with it) and the Eastern fighter.”54

Yet, such readings are somewhat overstated. Not only is it difficult to conclude that a work that so prominently praises naval accomplishment is inherently hoplitic, but the herald’s remark that “the bow was not at all enough, but the entire army was destroyed, having been lain low by the ramming ships” (278-9)55 draws an equal contrast between the Persian bow and the Greek (and particularly Athenian) ship. In fact, while

Aeschylus certainly offers, in his description of the battle at Psytalleia, an acknowledgment and commemoration of the land engagement, there is little reason to believe that the episode was included (and exaggerated) simply because Aeschylus

“wanted the hoplites to have their share in the glory of the Greek triumph.”56 Rather, the engagement can be read as an emphasis on the communal nature of the victory and the

52 Green 1996, 196. 53 τοιάδ’ ἐπ’ αὐτοῖς ἦλθε συµφορὰ πάθους,/ ὡς τοῖσδε καὶ δὶς ἀντισηκῶσαι ῥοπῆι (Pers. 436-7). 54 Goldhill 1988, 190. See also Pritchard 1999, 123-5; Hall 1989, 85-6; Rosenbloom 2006, 48-9. 55 οὐδὲν γὰρ ἤρκει τόξα, πᾶς δ’ ἀπώλλυτο/ στρατὸς δαµασθεὶ ναίοισιν ἐµβολαῖς (Pers. 278-9). 56 Hignett 1963, 238. 124 equal status granted to the accomplishments of not just the sailors and hoplites, but even the light-armed troops and archers as well.57

The land battle at Psytalleia, after all, never overtakes the focus of the play.

While the men who leap from the ships are described as heavily armed (εὐχάλκοις

ὅπλοισι)58 and so probably the marines stationed aboard the triremes, the destruction of the flower of the Persian nobility (441-2) is not wrought by the spear and sword of the hoplite, but by the stones (ἐκ χερῶν πέτροισιν)59 and arrows (τοξικῆς ἀπὸ θώµιγγος)60 of ship-born archers and rowers.61 In addition, the messenger’s initial claim that the catastrophe on the island of Psytalleia outweighed the defeat of the Persian fleet on the sea is tempered by the end of his speech. In his closing remarks on Psytalleia, the messenger calls for the disasters both on land and at sea to be equally mourned, “and so, in addition to the one mentioned before, it is for you [Atossa] to bemoan such a misfortune” (470-1).62 As A. F. Garvie notes, with these closing remarks, he “no longer claims that this second disaster was much more serious than the first (435-7). The two are now simply parallel, and one has to be added to the other.”63 Just as the victory at

Psytalleia is awarded to the hoplites, the archers, and the rowers alike, the destruction of the entire Persian army is accordingly credited to both those on land and on sea.64 It is

57 Rosenbloom 2006, 72-3. 58 Aesch. Pers. 456-5. 59 Aesch. Pers. 459-60. 60 Aesch. Pers. 460-1. 61 For the small company of hoplites and archers typically aboard triremes, see Morrison and Coates 1986, 109-10. For the use of oarsmen as light-armed skirmishers, see Morrison and Coates 1986, 114-7. 62 …τοιάνδε σοι/ πρὸς τῆι πάροιθε αυµφορὰν πάρα στένειν (Pers. 470-1). 63 Garvie 2009, 270 n. 470-1. 64 Rosenbloom 2006, 72-3. 125 worth noting, in this context, that the destruction of the small Persian land force comes from the sea, as it is ship-borne troops who assail the stranded soldiers, but, it seems, the lines are not so clearly drawn by Aeschylus and the need to identify such a dichotomy may be somewhat misplaced. Indeed, as Peter Euben suggests, the communal and unified nature of the Greek victory “prevents the play from engaging partisan emotions that would rob it of larger significance and, more importantly, it emphasizes the collective nature of the triumph.”65

The victory belongs to the polis, and while the battle at Salamis is described in noticeably panhellenic terms by Aeschylus (the messenger mentions Athens only once in his description), there is little question to whom credit is due.66 Shortly before his retelling of the battle, the messenger makes this clear, as he laments, “O Salamis, a most hateful name to hear. Alas, how I cry having remembered Athens” (284-5).67 The victory is accorded not to the panhellenic forces gathered at Salamis, but to Athens alone and to Athens as a whole.68 The play appears, then, not to be a dramatized confrontation between the hoplite elites and the sailor masses, nor a theatrical portrayal of a political contest between the infantry policies of Aristeides and the naval strategies of

Themistokles;69 rather, the work highlights the cooperative and collective nature of the

Greek victory.70 And while Aeschylus describes this communal victory in almost

65 Euben 1986, 266. 66 For the idea of a victory of the polis as a whole and so a continuation of the communal idea of Aeschylus’ representation, see Goldhill 1988, 192-3 and Euben 1986, 266-7. 67 ὦ πλεῖστον ἔχθος ὄνοµα Σαλαµῖνος κλύειν·/ φεῦ, τῶν Ἀθηνῶν ὡς στένω µεµνηµένος (Pers. 284-5). 68 For a similar idea in the material record, see West 1970, 278. 69 Pelling 1997, 10-3. 70 Goldhill 1988, 192. See also Saïd 1992/3, 65-6. 126 exclusively naval terms, it is not an attempt to glorify the navy by scorning the hoplites – his work is a commemoration of the unified participation of the polis as a whole.

It is unnecessary, therefore, to draw strong distinctions between the position of the rower and the position of the hoplite in Aeschylus’ work, and, by extension, in the public imaginary of early 5th century Athens.71 In the Persians, both the hoplite and the rower are presented as equal and vital participants in the defense of the polis and in the city’s continuing military campaigns. Despite the “Old-Oligarch’s” claim of the

“worthlessness” of Athenian sailors, the Persians reflects a community that viewed its navy not as an institution that made their city “worse,” but as a civic organization that both saved the city (349), and ensured the freedom of all those Greeks subject to Persian control (584-590).72 Such a positive image of the navy certainly did not marginalize the position of the hoplite in Athenian self-identity, but it did add “to the standing of those who won the victory, the poor who manned the ships.”73

This increased emphasis on the military participation of not just the hoplites, but the rowers as well, stresses not only the communal nature of this victory, but also the broader importance of civic participation at all levels of the community. Indeed, A. J.

Podlecki has seen the Persians as an attempt by Aeschylus to emphasize the “close relationship” of the military with the rest of the polis community. Presented within the context of the Athenian theater, a public space that “maintained a cultural equality that helped constitute and legitimate political equality,” the Persians would have reinforced a

71 Rosenbloom 2006, 36-7; Gagarin 1976, 36. 72 See also West 1970, 282. 73 Euben 1986, 368. 127 sense of communal participation and recognition.74 Citizens of every class and status had been forced from the city by the Persian invasion of Attica, thousands manned the ships at Salamis, even more witnessed the battle from the island; all shared in the victory, and all might participate in that moment again in the theater.75 By framing the military and naval victories as polis victories, Aeschylus demonstrates that the military and the civic community “form one unit, polis, and they are but two complementary parts of a unified whole; neither can function completely successfully without the other.”76 The victory at

Salamis, then, becomes a victory by the democratic community of Athens over the despotic monarch of the Persian Empire.77 Only a generation after the reforms of

Kleisthenes, the polis, as a whole, had withstood the threat of subjugation from a foreign

74 Euben 1986, 367. See also Meier (1993, 1), who argues, “Greek tragedies were meant for the citizens of Athens, not just for a theater-going minority, but for the whole citizenry of the most powerful city in the Greek world.” Paul Cartledge (1997, 17) also argues that, in some ways, “tragedy was if anything even more democratic than the Assembly.” Such conclusions, however, have not been universally accepted. Alan Sommerstein (1997, 72), for example, has argued, “The public whose opinions mattered to the dramatists was not the same as the public whose opinions mattered to the politician. Rather, he continues, dramas reflect and represent “the views of the decidedly unrepresentative sample of Athenians who were actually likely to see it.” Sommerstein’s conclusions are based on what he considers the prohibitive expense of attending the theater, though he gives little consideration to the property qualifications of the various classes and the range of wealth possible within them. While the exact nature and makeup of the theater audience remains problematic, it seems likely that a broad spectrum of Athenian citizens attended performances, and not simply the more wealthy, “rightward” leaning crowd suggested by Sommerstein. 75 Herodotus (8.41) relates that the Athenians made a proclamation (κήρυγµα ἐποιήσαντο) that every Athenian (Ἀθηναίων τῇ) should save his children and household as best he could. He continues that most sent their families to Troizen, though others were sent to Aegina and Salamis. After the men had evacuated their families and abandoned the city (ἐξέλιπον τὴν πόλιν), they sailed back to the camp (ἔπλεον ἐς τὸ στρατόπεδον). While Herodotus gives no specific indication of the makeup of the rowers, the impression is that a vast majority of the citizens were manning the oars. Interestingly, of the 200 ships in the Athenian fleet, 20 were manned by Chalcidians and a number of others by the Plataians. One wonders whether the fleet was too large for Athenian citizens alone to row, and if so, whether the citizen rowers consisted of more than simply thetes. Regardless of these considerations, though, when the Persians finally approached the city, they found it almost entirely deserted (ἔρηµον), except for a few holdouts on the Acropolis (Hdt. 8.51). The mass exodus of the city, as well as the proximity of the evacuees to the battle (especially those on Aegina and Salamis), emphasize the shared experience of the battle among the Athenian community as a whole. 76 Podlecki 1986, 78. 77 Meier 1993, 70-1. See also Rosenbloom (2006, 36), who argues, “Salamis transformed Athens’ democracy. The entire citizen body faced the Persians at sea: all Athenians were the heroes at Salamis.” 128 enemy and could assert with confidence that “they [were] called neither slaves nor subjects of any man” (242).78

Viewed in this way, the common conclusion that the Persians presents a contrast and contest between “sea and land, freedom and monarchy, Greeks and barbarians” appears to be misleading.79 Likewise, the assertion that the play highlights a tension between the thetic, democratic supporters of the naval policies of Themistokles and the upper-class, oligarchic supporters of the hoplite policies of Aristeides is exaggerated.

Such stark contrasts are not apparent in the play – the victory, even though at sea, belongs to the whole city. Men of every class participated in the battle and shared in its outcome.

And while the lower classes may have seen increased participation in the naval campaigns of the polis following the Persian Wars, it is not clear from the Persians that the navy is defined in strictly thetic terms.80 This is perhaps not surprising. Such a powerful navy was still a relatively new phenomenon in Athens. It had only been ten years since the Athenians had chosen “to become skilled in seamanship,” and only eight since they had abandoned their city to Xerxes and his army.81 While the navy may have come to be seen as the locus of thetic expression and democratic fundamentalism by the end of the 5th century, in the decade following the Persian Wars, that view does not yet

78 οὔτινος δοῦλοι κέκληνται φωτὸς οὐδ’ ὑπήκοοι (Pers. 242). See also Podlecki 1986, 78-9; Euben 1986, 370; Meier 1993, 75; Rosenbloom 2006, 36-7 79 Meier 1993, 76. 80 This is perhaps not surprising. As van Wees (1995, 156) has argued, “in reality it was by no means clear that one particular social group…contributed far more than others to the protection of the community. Most men, most of the time, played a role in war of some significance, and although changes in military practice occurred, these were not such as to confer a wholly new significance upon first the hoplites and then the lower classes.” 81 Hdt. 7.144; 8.51. 129 seem to have taken hold.82 Aeschylus praises Athenian accomplishments in overwhelmingly naval terms, yet this is not a victory simply of the thetes – it belongs to the entire community.

That such communal participation, accomplishment, and commemoration is expressed by Aeschylus in overwhelmingly nautical terms illustrates the prominent and positive position the navy had come to occupy in Athenian self-identity following

Salamis. Despite claims that any serious reformation of Athenian identity would have been “too difficult to achieve,” the decision to pursue and embrace a naval identity could not have been made without seriously altering the public imaginary of the polis.83 The

Athenians had abandoned their city and their land and placed their faith in their nascent navy. With that decision, they dramatically redefined not only their military strategy, but their civic identity as well. Only eight years after that decision was made, Aeschylus could present the Athenian victory at Salamis as an achievement of the polis, which could be shared and embraced by the entire community, hoplite and rower alike.

Such a positive presentation of Athenian naval interests by Aeschylus is perhaps not surprising, as by 472, Athens had become well established as the leader of the Delian

82 See for example, the “Old-Oligarch,” [Ath. pol. 1.1-2], Arist. Pol. 6.1321a14-15, and Pl. Leg. 707a-b. This strong connection between the thetes, the navy, and democracy, even as early as 480, has been seen by numerous scholars as well. Josiah Ober (1998, 78), for example, has argued that the fleet would not be possible without democracy and the heightened sense of thetic responsibility in the polis, and Barry Strauss (1996, 320) has likewise suggested that “service at sea made an essential contribution to the politicization of the Athenian thete.” While the navy certainly became a political force, as well as an outlet for thetic political action, by the end of the 5th century, it is difficult to conceive of such a one-to-one correlation so soon after the implementation of a naval policy in Athens. As Hans van Wees (1995, 161) has reasonably argued, “While we may have no doubt that, from the battle of Salamis onwards at least, the fleet played a crucial part in Athens’ defense and expansion, and that the lower classes occupied a prominent role in the fleet, it may have taken fifth-century Athenians some time to arrive at this view, and there were always those who disagreed and argued that the hoplite army or even the hoplite marines were more important than the rowers.” Such a conclusion is particularly convincing given the shared experience of the evacuation of Athens and Attica shortly before the battle at Salamis. 83 Pritchard 1998, 52. 130 League in its campaigns against the Persians. As early as 479, under the leadership of the

Spartans, the combined Greek force, which had defeated the Persians at Plataia, began their push to “liberate” the Greek city-states of the Ionian coast and the Aegean.84 Not long after the campaign had begun, the Spartan general Pausanias was expelled from his command, and leadership was taken over by the Athenians, despite the objections of

Sparta, Aegina, and various cities of the Peloponnese.85 The shift in command led to the dissolution of the alliance and the formation of a new league sometime between 478 and

476.86 By the time the Persians was performed, the newly formed Delian League, with the Athenian navy at its core, had seen campaigns in Thrace and Naxos, and perhaps battles at Tegea and Dipaieis.87 Such an increased prominence in the power structure of the Aegean was a new phenomenon in Athens, and one integrally tied to its navy. The military and economic implications of this new naval prominence could not have been lost on the city’s inhabitants, and while Aeschylus’ Persians presents the navy in an overwhelmingly positive manner, it also cautions that the Athenian’s newfound power and the actions of the Delian League should be exercised with a cautious restraint.

84 Herodotus (8.108-10) suggests that plans to pursue the Persians were set in motion as early as 479, following the battle at Plataia. In the same year, he records (8.132) a meeting between envoys from Ionia and the Greek force under Spartan command. With difficulty (µόγις), they persuaded the Greeks to pursue the Persians as far as Delos. While Herodotus’ account does not indicate any sort of unified or coherent strategy for pursuing the Persians, the involvement of the combined Greek forces in the Aegean at the behest of the Ionians laid the groundwork for what would become the Delian League. See Rhodes 1992, 34-5. 85 Hdt. 8.3; Thuc. 1.94-5. As Lazenby (1975, 235-6) has noted, it is not entirely clear why the Spartan general was expelled, but there is little reason to doubt the historicity of his expulsion as leader of the combined Greek fleet. 86 For the trouble with dating the formation of the Delian League, see Rhodes 1992, 35-6; Loomis 1990, 490-2. 87 For the early campaigns of the Delian League and the uncertainty of the dates, see Rhodes 1992, 40-9. 131 Michael Gagarin noted some time ago that the Persians would have inspired a certain amount of pride among its primarily Athenian audience – not simply because it praises the victory at Salamis, but because it bolstered support for Athens’ foreign policy in the years following the Persian Wars.88 The messenger’s assertion that “those throughout the Asian land are no longer ruled by Persian laws” (584-5)89 would have taken on increased significance as the Athenians and their allies sought to free their

Ionian brethren from Persian control.90 Yet Aeschylus tempers this celebration with caution from the most unlikely of sources, the Persians, who had so recently suffered defeat as a result of unfettered ambition.91 If the “point of the play is not that Persia should remember Athens but that Athens should remember Persia,” then the repeated calls for restraint and humility in the Persians take on an added significance and relevance as Athens pursued its campaigns against Xerxes’ Empire.92 Atossa’s fear that

88 Gagarin 1976, 36. 89 τοὶ δ’ ἀνὰ γᾶν Ἀσίαν δὴν/ οὐκέτι περσονοµοῦνται…(Pers. 584-5). 90 There is some question about the original goals of the Delian League. Thucydides (1.97.1, 3.10.1-4) suggests that the league was organized both for revenge and for the liberation of the Hellenes under Persian control. Sealey (1966, 238) has suggested that the league’s organization was purely for “piratical” purposes, though Jackson (1969, 14-5) has argued that looting and plunder were simply the byproduct of battles pursued for political gain, particularly by the Athenians. Raaflaub (1979, 3-5) suggests that Thucydides’ various interpretations of the goals of the Delian League are all related to and part of a more unified aim. He stresses the desire for revenge and plunder, but notes that there was also interest in freeing the Ionian Greeks for both propagandistic and political purposes. Rhodes (1992, 36) notes that the emphasis on freeing the Hellenes under Persian control may have been mooted in 479, but argues that “we need not doubt that that was part of the reason for the formation of a permanent alliance against the Persians.” Given the Athenian participation in the failed Ionian revolt against the Persians only two decades before (Hdt. 5.96-6.20), it is not difficult to expect that some interest in freeing the Ionian Greeks from the Persians played a part in the formation of the Delian League – even if financial and political gain were also factors. 91 For the Persians as a warning against over-extension of the Delian League, see Gagarin 1976, 35-6, 53; Meier 1988, 78; Euben 1986, 365; Rosenbloom 2006, 93-7. Pelling (1997,10-3) cautiously accepts the possibility of such a contemporary resonance within the Persians, but offers other possibilities as well. Conacher (1996, 3-9) views the Persians as a warning against the pride exhibited by the Persians, but he does not connect it directly to the contemporary activities of the Delian League. 92 Euben 1986, 365. 132 “great wealth, having covered the ground with dust, might ruin prosperity with its foot”

(163-4)93 is echoed by the parting words of the ghost of Darius, who urges the elders, in their troubles, to “give pleasure to [their] soul each day, as wealth is not of use to the dead” (840-2).94 As wealth from both plunder and tribute began to trickle into Athens as they took control of the Delian League, this message would have taken on an increased resonance and significance for the Athenian audience.95 Darius’ admonition to the elders can be seen then as a warning to the Athenians as well – “Beholding such things and the punishment of these [Persians], remember Athens and Greece, lest someone, despising his present fortune, and having grown desirous of other things, cast away great happiness” (823-6).96

The call to be content with prosperity was particularly relevant to Aeschylus’ audience in the years following the battle at Salamis. As the city began to come to terms with its nascent naval identity and its newfound position of authority at the head of the

Delian League, Aeschylus’ staging of Xerxes’ hubristic fall from grace served as a cautionary tale for its own expansionist ideas and actions.97 Yet despite the risks of imperial ambition that naval might engendered, Aeschylus presents the navy in an overwhelmingly positive and prominent manner. In the Persians, the naval victory at

Salamis is not viewed as an event that empowered the thetes to overwhelm the elites, or

93 …µὴ µέγας πλοῦτος κονίσας οὖδας ἀντρέψηι ποδὶ ὄλβον…(Pers. 163-4). 94 …ἐν κακοῖς ὅµως/ ψυχῆι διδόντες ἡδονὴν καθ’ ἡµέραν,/ ὡς τοῖς θανοῦσι πλοῦτος οὐδὲν ὠφελεῖ (Pers. 840-2). 95 For Athenian access to the wealth generated by the Delian League, see Rhodes 1992, 36-8; Miller 1997, 11-20. 96 …τοιαῦθ’ ὁρῶντες τῶνδε τἀπιτίµια/ µέµνησθ’ Ἀθηνῶν Ἑλλάδος τε, µηδέ τις/ ὑπερφρονήσας τὸν παρόντα δαίµονα/ ἄλλων ἐρασθεὶς ὄλβον ἐκχέηι µέγαν (Pers. 823-6). 97 Euben 1997, 71. 133 as victory that subjugated the hoplite to the whim of the rower. Rather, the victory over the Persians is presented as a victory of the polis, the result of communal suffering and participation.98 The city as a whole benefitted from the naval engagement at Salamis, and so the fleet, as well as those who manned it, gained and maintained a prominent position in Athenian public identity. The positive manner in which Aeschylus presented the navy reinforced this newly gained prominence. The cautious optimism with which he praised the communal accomplishments at Salamis, however, soon gave way to increased cynicism and criticism in the subsequent literature of the 5th century. As Athens tightened its control over the Delian League and its allies, the call for restraint presented in the Persians had all but failed and an “imperial” Athens had emerged. The following section will examine the representation of the Athenian navy in the literary works of this

“imperial” Athens, particularly the position the fleet held in the works of Aristophanes and Thucydides. While both authors present ever-increasing uneasiness with the city’s imperial and martial aspirations (aspirations largely undertaken by the navy), they nevertheless continue to present the navy in a largely positive light.

Part 4.2: Prudence and Plundering: The Representation of the Navy in Aristophanes’ Knights

In the 50 years that followed Aeschylus’ production of the Persians, Athens had transformed from a city recovering from foreign attack to a metropolis at the head of a military and economic “empire.”99 Inscribed lists of allied tribute, regional control of

98 Euben 1997, 71-3. 99 The term “empire” is a source of much debate in considerations of Athenian history. While the Athenians maintained an expansionist inclination and controlled political, military, and economic affairs of 134 coinage, weights, and measures, and the bold assertion that the city imported “everything from every land” attest to Athens’ newfound economic prosperity and authority.100 The city’s military influence also continued to grow as the Delian League, with the Athenian navy at its core, expanded its campaigns into Asia Minor, Cyprus, and Egypt.101 With the transfer of the treasury of the Delian League from Delos to Athens in 454/3, however, any semblance of autonomy among its members effectively came to an end.102 The increased wealth funneling into Athens from allied tribute contributed significantly to the monumental aggrandizement of the city, but led to ever increasing discontent among many members of the league. In addition, Athens’ growing involvement in the military and economic affairs of mainland poleis such as Potidaia and Megara strained the city’s already tenuous relations with Sparta, Corinth, and Thebes.103 The Athenian refusal to lift a ban on Megarian shipping interests within the Athenian sphere of influence effectively severed any hope of continued peace with Sparta and her Peloponnesian

“subject” states, these states were all Greek. The Athenians controlled no foreign states, though their campaigns against Egypt, Sicily, and the Persian Empire suggest that they may have had such designs. For the purpose of this dissertation, I use the terms “empire” and “imperial” as indications of Athenian expansionist inclinations. For discussions (with additional bibliography) of whether the Delian League and democratic Athens were “imperial,” see Rhodes 1985, 1-4, 22-9; McGregor 1987, 75-83; Powell 2001, 35-96, Ma 2009, 125-7; Brock 2009, 149-66. 100 …ἐπεσέρχεται δὲ διὰ µέγεθος τῆς πόλεως ἐκ πάσης γῆς τὰ πάντα (Thuc. 2.38). For considerations of the Athenian coinage decrees, see the opposing discussions of Meiggs (1972, 167-72) and Mattingly (1996, 5-52, 403-26). 101 For the activities of the Delian League in the decades following the Persian Wars, see Rhodes 1992, 40- 9, 54-61; McGregor 1987, 37-50; Powell 2001, 15-22. 102 For the original autonomy of the members of the Delian League, see Thucydides 1.97.1; for the transfer of the treasury to Athens, see Plutarch, Life of Perikles 12.1. It is largely agreed that the treasury was moved in 454, following the failed Egyptian campaign. Indeed, it is shortly after this that the first tribute lists appear in Athens (Meiggs and Lewis 1969,83-8 no. 39). Nevertheless, there is no clear indication of when the treasury was in fact moved. For the argument that the treasury was actually moved to Athens prior to the 450’s, see Pritchett 1969, 17-21 and Robertson 1980, 112-9. 103 For the dispute over Potidaia, see Thuc. 1.56-71; for Athenian involvement in Megarian affairs, see Thuc. 1.139-44. 135 allies.104 By the spring of 431, negotiations between Athens and Sparta had failed and the two poleis, with their respective allies, were at war.

The early years of the Peloponnesian War were little more than a war of attrition that resulted in a stalemate between the Athenians and Spartans.105 The Peloponnesians invaded the Attic countryside each year, while the Athenians sent their navy along the

Peloponnesian coast on campaigns of raid and plunder.106 Neither the Spartans nor the

Athenians made substantial gains in the early stages of the war, though the fall of Plataia, and the revolt of Mytilene were significant blows to Athenian control of its territories and allies.107 In addition, the outbreak of plague in Athens in 430 and again in 426 led to a devastating loss in Athenian manpower and resources.108 While the Peloponnesians seemed to be gaining some ground on the Athenians during these early years of the war, the situation dramatically changed in 425, when a small force of Peloponnesian troops was trapped by the Athenian general Demosthenes on the island of Sphakteria, near

104 While there were many contributing factors to the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War, the Athenian refusal to yield to Corinthian demands on behalf of the Megarians seems to have been the final straw. Thucydides (1.139) relates that the Spartans offered the Athenians an ultimatum before the outbreak of the war – if Athens would lift the sanctions placed on Megara, the Spartans would not make war. Despite this ultimatum, the Athenians refused the Spartan offer and war soon broke out. For a discussion of the significance of the Megarian Decree to the outbreak of the war, see Powell 2001, 118-9, 127. As Powell notes, even without the dispute over Megara, “Sparta would have retained her wish in principle to reduce the power of Athens.” 105 For the relatively small gains made by both sides in the initial stages of the Pelopnnesian War, see Lazenby 2004, 31-48. See also Hutchinson (2006, 1), who states simply, “At the outset of the war the antagonists were ill-matched for anything other than a stalemate.” 106 For the Peloponnesian invasion of Attica, see Thuc. 2.10-23. The Athenian policy during the first years of the war was attributed to the statesman Perikles, who ordered all Athenian citizens to flee the countryside and take refuge within the city walls (see Thucydides 2.13-4). The Athenians subsequently sent their navy on raids along the Peloponnesian coast. For the Athenian naval policy at this time, see Thuc. 2.24-30. For the competing strategies of the two armies, see Lazenby 2004, 31-8. 107 For the siege and fall of Plataia, see Thuc. 2.2-6, 2.71-8, 3.52-68. For the revolt of Mytilene, see Thuc. 3.2-6 and 3.25-36. 108 Thuc. 2.47-54 and 2.57-9. For the affect of the plague on Athenian manpower and military strategy, see Powell 2001, 159-61. 136 Pylos.109 Fearing the loss of their forces, including over a hundred full citizens, the

Spartans sued for peace with the Athenians.110 Despite this offer of truce, the Athenian assembly, bolstered by the words of the demagogue Kleon, chose to press their advantage, and refused the Peloponnesian offer of peace.111 Following his victory in the assembly, Kleon promised the Athenians that he would either capture or defeat the

Peloponnesian forces on Sphakteria within a period of twenty days.112 True to his word,

Kleon joined Demosthenes at Pylos, and within the promised twenty days, the

Peloponnesian force on the island had surrendered – among the captives were 120 full

Spartiate hoplites.113 With the capture of the Spartan citizens, the Athenians gained an unexpected advantage over the Spartans and demanded peace on their own terms.

In the euphoria that followed that capture of the Peloponnesian forces on Sphakteria, the

Athenians refused Spartan offers for peace and embarked upon an increasingly bold and expansive series of campaigns against the Peloponnesians.114 At the heart of this ambitiously expansionist policy was the Athenian navy. In the months that followed the

Pylos campaign, the fleet transported hoplites and cavalry into the Argolid, embarked upon campaigns against Krommyon and Methana, suppressed an oligarchic coup in

109 Thuc. 4.3-4, 4.8-14. Lazenby (2004, 67-79) and Hutchinson (2006, 53-61) have both analyzed Thucydides’ account of the engagements at Pylos and Sphakteria and have reconstructed the strategy, troop deployments, and tactics of the Athenian and Spartan forces during the campaign. 110 Thuc. 4.15-20. 111 Thuc. 4.21-3. For the role of Kleon in the deliberations of the Athenian assembly during the Pylos campaign, see Powell 2001, 169-72. 112 Thuc. 4.27-8. 113 Thuc. 4.29-40. 114 The capture of 120 full Spartiate citizens had a significant impact on Athenian military and political strategy after 425. As Lazenby (2004, 79) remarks, despite repeated calls for peace by the Spartans, “Athenian tails were up, and all such feelers were rejected. Instead they embarked upon an ever more ambitious strategy.” For similar discussion, see Powell 2001, 172-5; Hutchinson 2006, 61-2; Tritle 2010, 89-91. 137 Kerkyra, and preemptively quelled a rumored revolt of the Chians.115 The figurehead for this new Athenian policy was the now immensely popular statesman Kleon, who was considered the hero of the Pylos campaign.116 Despite this rise in popularity, Kleon, and his “hawkish” policies, became the subject of repeated criticism among Athenian writers.

Thucydides (3.36.6) describes the statesman as “the most violent/forceful (βιαιότατος) of the citizens and…by far the most persuasive (παρὰ πολὺ…πιθανώτατος),”117 and

Aristophanes made the statesman the subject of abuse in his Knights. Performed at the

Lenaia of 424, only one year after the capture of the Spartan hoplites on Sphakteria,

Knights is an unbridled attack not only of Kleon’s character and politics, but of Athenian military power and foreign policy as well.118

The play is set at the house of Demos, an old man who is constantly catered to by his two slaves and a cunning and manipulative tanner (βυρσοδέψης) named Paphlagon.

The two servants, who are not named in the comedy, are upset because Paphlagon has taken credit for all of their hard work. Through his deceit and flattery, the tanner has managed to gain the favor of Demos and to turn the old man against his slaves. The slaves, wishing to rid the household of Paphlagon, turn to a sausage-seller

(Ἀλλαντοπώλης) of even less repute than the tanner. A contest ensues, and the

115 For the Athenian campaigns in the aftermath of Sphakteria, see Thucydides 4. 42-51. For the importance of the navy in Athenian campaigns after Pylos, see Lazenby (2004, 82), who notes, “The successful occupation of Pylos and Methana, and the landing in Corinthian territory, pointed the way forward to how sea power could be used to hurt the enemy, and particularly those on the coast, significantly.” 116 Kleon’s popularity is reflected in his election to the generalship in 423/2 (Thucydides 5.2.1), one of the few positions in the Athenian democracy that still depended on popular vote for appointment. 117 Thuc. 3.36.6. See also McGregor 1987, 136; Powell 2001, 169-72. 118 The first hypothesis of Knights states that the play was performed at the Lenaia during the archonship of Stratokles (Ἐδιδάχθη τὸ δρᾶµα ἐπὶ Στρατοκλέους ἄρχοντος δηµοσίᾳ εἰς Λήναια), in which it won first prize, having defeated the Satyrs of Kratinos and the Porters of Aristomenes. For the text of the hypotheses of Knights, see Rogers 1910, Knights xlvii-l). 138 sausage-seller, whose name is revealed to be Agorakritos only late in the play, succeeds in outdoing Paphlagon in deceit, trickery, and flattery. Demos, having found a new favorite, seems only to have gone from bad to worse; yet, in an unsuspected twist, the sausage-seller rejuvenates Demos and restores him to the honor and glory of his youth.

The supplanted character of the tanner has long been accepted as a thinly veiled caricature of Kleon, who was at the peak of his popularity in 424.119 Aristophanes mentions the politician only once by name, when the chorus longingly envisions how

“pleasant the light of day will be…if Kleon is utterly destroyed” (973-6);120 yet, throughout the play, Paphlagon seeks praise for his accomplishments at Pylos.121 This boast, however, is undercut by the accusation that Paphlagon stole the victory at Pylos from the other general. The tanner himself proudly claims that he, “having sailed there,

[over-reached] the generals who were on Pylos, and led away the Lakonians” (742-3),122 and the sausage seller accuses him of “[appearing] to be a man, by reaping the harvest of another” (392).123 Despite the underhanded treatment of this victory, however, the association between Paphlagon and Kleon is apparent.124 Aristophanes’ less than subtle

119 Rogers (1910, vi-xxvi) describes the nature of this caricature and marvels at Aristophanes’ boldness, calling his attack on Kleon “the most fearless incident in a singularly fearless career.” Rogers (1910, xxv) notes in particular what must have been the audience’s “amazement not only to hear the theatre ringing with a straightforward attack on the great demagogue, then at the zenith of his power, but to find this very victory of Pylus again and again thrown in his teeth.” 120 …ἥδιστον φάος ἡµέρας…ἤν Κλέων ἀπόληται (Eq. 973-6). 121 See, for example, Knights 353-5, 742-3, 843-6. 122 …τοὺς στρατηγοὺς ὑποδραµὼν τοὺς ἐν Πύλῳ,/ πλεύσας ἑτέρου τὴν χύτραν ὑφειλόµην (Eq. 742- 3). 123 …κᾆτ’ ανὴρ ἔδοξεν εἶναι, τἀλλότριον ἀµῶν θέρος (Eq. 392). 124 In addition to the connection with Pylos, Paphlagon’s role as a tanner has also been seen as a direct reference to Kleon and his family’s profession in the leather business. See, for example, MacDowell 1995, 80-1; Sidwell 2009, 155. As Sidwell argues, Aristophanes regarded “the central satirical device available to him (and his rivals) as on-stage caricature of real individuals,” and in the case of Paphlagon/Cleon, this caricature is easily detectable because it is so “blatant.” 139 caricature of Kleon has led to a scholarly desire to link the remaining characters in

Knights to other prominent statesman of the time. As early as the middle ages, scholiasts had identified Demos’ slaves as representations of the generals Nikias and

Demosthenes.125 Despite the fact that these characters remain unnamed in the play itself, the first slaves’ claim to have “kneaded a Lakonian barley-cake on Pylos” (55), which

Paphlagon “snatched away from [him] and served up himself” (55-6)126 is a convincing reference to Demosthenes’ role as the general at Pylos, before Kleon was sent with an additional army to capture the Peloponnesian forces on Sphakteria.127 Likewise, the religiosity, pessimism, sobriety, and relative moderation of the second slave have been seen as a parody of the nature of Nikias.128 Despite the fact that Demosthenes and Nikias are never referred to as such in the play and the slaves remain nameless throughout the work, it is likely that the actors would have worn portrait-masks during the performance.129 As the first slave remarks, Paphlagon “[was] not represented by a

125 As Rogers (1910, xxix) notes, “In all the MSS., and in all the Scholia, and in all the editions down to, and including Bergk’s, the three slaves bear the names of the persons they are intended to represent, viz. Κλέων, Δηµοσθένης, and Νικίας.” In addition, the second hypothesis preserves the identification, labeling the two slaves as “the two popular oarators,” λέγουσι δὲ τῶν οἰκετῶν τὸν µὲν εἶναι Δηµοσθένην, τὸν δὲ Νικίαν, ἵνα ὦσι δηµηγόροι οἱ δύο (Rogers 1910, xlix). 126 …µᾶζαν µεµαχότος ἐν Πύλῳ Λακοωνικήν,/ πανουργότατά πως περιδαµὼν ὐφαρπάσας/ αὐτὸς παρέθηκε τὴν ὑπ’ ἐµοῦ µεµαγµένην (Eq. 55-7). 127 See also, Knights 204-5, 319-21. 128 For the interpretation of these characteristics and their connection to the ancient perception of Nikias, see Sommerstein 1981, 3; Sommerstein 1980, 46-7; MacDowell 1995, 87-88; Sidwell 2009, 155-6. While the slaves have widely been accepted as parodies of Nikias and Demosthenes, Croiset (1909, 77) argued that the association was the invention of Alexandrian scholars, and not the intention of Aristophanes. While Croiset accepts that allusions to these characters may exist in the play, he argues that they are too inconsistent to justify such a strong association. Despite these objections, the argument put forth by Sidwell, MacDowell, Sommerstein, and others, is more convincing and is accepted here. 129 Sommerstein 1981, 3; Slater 2002, 68-9 n. 3; MacDowell 1995, 88. The use of portrait-masks in Athenian old-comedy has been called into question, particularly by Dover (2004, 239-49), but as Sidwell (2009, 64-9) argues, even if the use of portrait-, or “caricature-,” masks was not widespread, the reference to such masks at Knights 230-3 seems positive evidence for their use, in at least some performances. 140 portrait mask (ἐξῃκασµένος), for, on account of their fear, none of the mask-makers (τῶν

σκευοποιῶν) wished to portray him. At any rate, he will certainly be recognized: for the spectators are clever (δεξιόν)” (230-3).130

The likelihood that the actors wore portrait masks adds credence to the Medieval scholiasts’ identification of the slaves as caricatures of the generals Nikias and

Demosthenes. More recently, scholars have tried to connect the remaining characters in

Knights with other prominent statesmen of the period. Both Vickers and Sidwell argue that the sausage-seller was written as a parody of Alkibiades, whose political career was beginning to take shape around the time that Knights was produced, and Vickers goes a step further, linking the figure of Demos to the military strategies and political ideas of the recently deceased Perikles.131 While it is tempting to link the sausage-seller and

Demos to specific, historical personages, the evidence from the play is simply not strong enough to do so with serious conviction.132 Nevertheless, the identification of Paphlagon and the two slaves as caricatures of Kleon, Nikias, and Demosthenes lends a significant political undertone to Aristophanes’ Knights. And while Gomme may have been correct, to assert that “Aristophanes was not a politician but a dramatist,” even he allows that

Knights “gives a picture of contemporary Athenian politics.”133

130 …οὐ γάρ ἐστιν ἐξῃκασµένος,/ ὑπὸ τοῦ δέους γὰρ αὐτὸν οὐδεὶς ἤθελεν/ τῶν σκευοποιῶν εἰκάσαι. πάντως γε µὴν γνωσθήσεται· τὸ γὰρ θέατρον δεξιόν (Eq. 230-3). 131 Vickers 1997, 98-106, 113-5; Sidwell 2009, 158-60. 132 Even Sidwell (2009, 158) notes “how difficult it is to pry from the text what it was not meant to reveal per se.” And while Sommerstein’s (2009, 219) assertion “that with the kind of evidence [Vickers] presents and the way he deploys it, I think one could prove absolutely anything” is unnecessarily harsh, it does highlight the difficulty such identifications present to scholars dealing with Knights. 133 Gomme 1996, 33, 39 n. 11. 141 The exact nature of this political picture, however, has led to considerable scholarly debate surrounding the political inclination of not only Knights, but of

Aristophanes himself. The play has been used as proof that Aristophanes was oligarchic, radically democratic, and conservatively Kimonian, all while expressing his aristocratic allegiances and his sympathy with the masses.134 The picture that emerges is complex, contradictory, and untenable. As David Konstan has noted, “There is no unambiguous

‘Aristophanes’ within the texts. There is, however, a complex of ideologically valorized elements that are not wholly reconcilable with each other, but which in combination yield determinate ideological effects.”135 Aristophanes may not have been presenting a single, unified “political line,” but rather a series of “social possibilities,” some of which were made particularly prominent, while others were muted or concealed.136 Such ambiguity has been convincingly attributed to a desire among comedians to portray social tensions and stir political debate.137 While Knights may not provide convincing insight into the

134 For Aristophanes’ possible oligarchic leanings, see Sommerstein 2009 212; Cartledge 1990, 52. Macdowell (1995, 106, 352-3), Croiset (1909, 79) and Zumbrunnen (2004, 672), however, see in the play a cautious optimism in the existing democratic system. Ste Croix (1996, 45) and Sidwell (2009, 163) also see a democratic inclination in Knights, but argues that the play expresses a desire for an earlier form of democracy, like that under Kimon at the time of Marathon. For Knights as a populist play, see Heath 1987, 40-3; Zumbrunnen 2004, 659. 135 Konstan 1995, 6. Konstan likewise turns to Goldhill’s (1991, 200) assertion that the “search to discover the place from which the figures of comedy speak will not uncover an author’s voice speaking out from beyond the boundaries of comic interplay.” For similar sentiments, see Heath (1987, 8); Sidwell (2009, 3- 4), and Edmunds (1987, 66), though both Heath and Sidwell subsequently attempt to determine and recreate the political views of Aristophanes. 136 Konstan 1995, 6. As Konstan (1995, 6-7) continues, “The worlds the comic poets portrayed in their dramas, then, are not coherent. They do not erase the contradictions in the society around them, but transform them imaginatively by combining conventional conceptions in new ways that are simultaneously funny, revealing, and politically loaded. Their critical corrosiveness is not innocent, but operates through processes of selection and reconstruction that constitute the ideological orientation of the text.” For a similar conclusion, see Edwards 1991, 178-9; McGrew 2002, 108-11. 137 Ercolani 2006, 18; Euben 1997, 138; Henderson 1993, 317. See also Edmunds (1987, 59), who argues that comedy was not meant to be a portrayal of the playwright’s political views, but rather a “didactic” instrument through which societal political concerns were expressed. For comedy’s didactic role in ancient society, see also Zimmermann 2006, 4, 14-6. 142 political outlook of the playwright, the work does reflect the contemporary political concerns and debates of the community for which it was produced.138 At the center of these tensions was the question of Athens’ continued expansionism and the role its navy played in that policy.

In his Persians, Aeschylus warns of the dangers of excessive war and unbridled imperialism; yet, in the wake of the Athenian victory at Pylos, it is clear that these warnings had gone unheeded.139 The capture of the Spartan hoplites was cause for an increased militarism in the community and, with Kleon in the lead, led to a reinvigoration of the city’s expansionist policies.140 As a parody of Kleon, Paphlagon highlights

Demos’ potential to “become an eagle and be king of all the earth” (1087).141 And he promises the old man that “it is fated [for him] to rule every land, having been crowned with roses” (965-6).142 Despite these promises of power, however, Demos is swayed by the sausage-seller, who accuses Paphlagon of “cheating [Demos] by dreams

(ὀνειροπολεῖς)” (809), all while “plundering (ἁρπάζῃς) and accepting bribes

(δωροδοκῇς) from the cities” (802).143 The sausage-seller repeatedly accuses Paphlagon

138 As Peter Euben (1997, 109) has argued, “Democratic Athens was as much a culture of performances and spectacle as it was one of accountability and self-scrutiny. This meant that theater ‘stood alongside other public forum as a place to confront matters of import and moment’ and that politics, law, religion, athletic contexts, music, and poetry were public and performative so that one form of cultural expression merged easily with another.” Euben further quotes Rhem (1992, vii), who notes that the Athenians were “imbued with a sense of event, of things said and done in the context of the moment and a critical distance from it.” As both Euben and Rehm suggest, theater was integrally tied to contemporary politics, and “Athenian politics were profoundly theatrical” (Euben 1997, 109). 139 Euben 1997, 84. 140 For Athenian military activity immediately following Pylos, see Thucydides 4.42-69. See also, Lazenby 2004, 79; Powell 2001, 172-5; Hutchinson 2006, 61-2; Tritle 2010, 89-91. 141 …αἰετὸς ὡς γίγνει καὶ πάσης γῆς βασιλεύεις (Eq. 1087). 142 …ὡς ἂρξαι σε δεῖ/ χώρας ἁπάσης ἐστεφανωοµένον ῥόδοις (Eq. 965-6). 143 I accept here Sommerstein’s (1981, 186 n. 802) interpretation of πόλεων as a reference to “the allied states,” though the Greek simply uses the term cities/states. 143 of using the empire merely for extortion and theft – a means of collecting money to deceive the people and line his own pockets.144 While Paphlagon argues that “[ruling] all the Greeks” (797) will allow Demos to be cared for and fed by the state,145 the sausage- seller claims that if Demos should ever again be at peace, “he will become aware of the kind of good that [Paphlagon] has swindled him out of with his state-pay” (801-809).146

The sausage-seller’s call for peace is a repeated motif throughout Knights, yet the question of empire dominates the debate between Paphlagon and the sausage-seller.147

As with discussions of Aristophanes’ politics, it is difficult to determine the playwright’s beliefs about Athenian expansionism with any conviction;148 nevertheless, the debate between Paphlagon and the sausage-seller serves to problematize what must have been a contentious issue following the Athenian victory at Pylos. Throughout the play, the identity of the polis is uncertain and changing. The city and its citizens are called

“tyrant” (τύραννον, 1114), “monarch” (τὸν τῆς Ἑλλάδος…καὶ τῆς γῆς τῆσδε

µόναρχον, 1330), and “king” (βασιλεῦ των Ελλήνων, 1333) even following the miraculous restoration of Demos; yet, Athens is simultaneously considered the “protector

144 See particularly Eq. 1030-4. For a reiteration of this accusation, see Eq. 429-41. 145…ἳνα γ’ Ἑλλήνων ἄρξῃ πάντων (Eq. 797). Paphlagon is referring to the pay jury-members received following the reforms of Ephialtes and Perikles. Originally, jurors were paid 2 obols for their service, but around 425, this amount was raised to 3 obols. The increase in jury-pay is often attributed to Kleon, and so Paphllagon’s enthusiasm for state pay is understood. For an overview of the institution of jury-pay in Athens, see Fornara and Samons 1991, 67-75; Markle 2004, 95-131. Paphlagon makes a similar claim at Eq. 1014-20. See also, Eq, 904-5. 146 γνώςσεται οἳων ἀγαθῶν αὐτὸν τῃ µισθοφορᾷ παρεκόπτου (807). Again, I accept here Sommerstein’s reading of µισθοφορᾷ as “state-pay” rather than simply “pay” or “wages.” 147 For the recurring peace motif, see Eq. 624-82, 792-6, 1388-95; see also Slater 2002, 84-5; Sommerstein 2009, 209-11; Ste Croix 1996, 45, 52-3. Heath (1987, 41) argues that these calls for peace were not meant to be taken seriously, but he cannot deny that the theme plays an important role in many of Aristophanes’ works. 148 For various conclusions about Aristophanes’ feelings toward empire, see Ste Croix 1996, 45; Forrest 1975, 22-4; MacDowell 1995, 352-3. 144 of the islands” (ταῖς νήσοις ἐπικουρε, 1319), both “marvelous and much sung”

(θαυµασταῖς καὶ πολυύµνοις, 1328). The city’s imperial aspirations are said to be both a means of ruling the whole world (1084-7) and an opportunity to rein in Persian aggression (1088-9). There exists in these contradictions a tension between the promise felt at the close of the Persian Wars and the reality of Aristophanes’ Athens.149 The optimism and potential recognized by Aeschylus is called into question by the dialogue of Knights, and the ever expanding role of Athens in the Aegean put the city at risk of becoming exactly what Aeschylus had warned against. In the center of this debate was the navy, the vehicle of Athenian prosperity and empire. Throughout Knights, the navy is presented as a positive force for Athens and its citizens. Nevertheless, its relationship to the city’s increased expansionism is portrayed with a marked cynicism that calls into question the extent to which Athenian naval power ought to have been exercised and extended.

As Malcolm Heath has noted, throughout Aristophanes’ works, the navy is seen as an institution that benefits the city by providing wealth and luxury for the people, particularly the lower classes.150 In Knights, the sausage-seller repeatedly calls for the fleet to be paid so that this prosperity might be maintained, and, indeed, one of the first acts of the reformed Demos is to provide for the city’s rowers.151 At no point in the play are the rowers or the navy portrayed as unworthy recipients of such state support, nor is naval identity ever presented as harmful to the polis. Demos confidently asserts that “the

149 MacDowell 1995, 104-5; Konstan 1995, 8. 150 Heath 1987, 39-40. For further discussion of Aristophanes’ opinions of the navy and its positive influence on the community, see Sommerstein 2009, 207-8; Gomme 1996, 40; MacDowell 1995, 104-5. 151 Knights 1079, 1350-3, 1366-8. See also Sommerstein 2009, 207-8; MacDowell 1995, 104-5. 145 Piraeus [was] a prudent thing” (886),152 and even the poet reckons the progress of his career in expressly naval terms. A playwright, according to Aristophanes, must be self- controlled, lest his fame be short-lived, just as “one must first become a rower, before he puts a hand to the rudder, and then he is to be a bow officer and examine the winds closely, and only then is this man to steer for himself” (541-4).153 Over the course of the play, rhetorical debate (756-62, 830), military victory (595-610), and even political confrontation (429-41) are expressed in strictly naval terms, and such representations reflect the degree to which the social, political, and military institutions of Athens were integrally tied to her fleet.154 Through it all, the navy is presented in overwhelmingly positive terms.155

While the resentment and bitterness with which the “Old-Oligarch” and Plato treat the navy is absent from Knights, it is clear from the play that the navy held a tenuous position in considerations of Athenian expansion and imperialism. Aristophanes presents a conflict between the strategic (and material) importance of the navy and the end to which it was being used.156 Despite Paphlagon’s claim that the “wooden walls”

(τεῖχος…ξύλινον, 1040) would serve as a defense for Demos,157 the sausage-seller warns

152 …καίτοι σοφὸν κἀκεῖν’ ὁ Πειραιεὺς (Eq. 886). 153 …καὶ πρὸς τούτοισιν ἔφασκεν/ ἐρέτην χρῆναι πρῶτα γενέσθαι πρὶν πηδαλίοις ἐπιχειρεῖν,/ κᾆτ’ ἐντεῦθεν πρῳρατεῦσαι καὶ τοὺς ἀνέµους διαθρῆσαι,/ κᾆτα κυβερνᾶν αὐτὸν ἑαυτῷ (Eq. 541-4). 154 Pritchard 1998, 53-4. 155 Pritchard 1998, 53. 156 For the role of conflict in comedy, see Ercolani 2006, 18; Henderson 1992, 317. As Henderson (1993, 317) remarks, in comedy “the polis could for once be publicly portrayed and analyzed in all its complexity, with all its internal divisions and tensions, and before a representative audience.” See also McGlew 2002, 108-11. 157 The mention of the “wooden walls” hearkens back to the oracle received by the Athenians on the eve of the Persian Wars. According to Herodotus (7.141-3), this oracle, which warned the Athenians that only their wooden walls would save them from destruction, led Themistokles to institute his naval policies. 146 the old man that Paphlagon is only interested in the “swift ships for levying money”

(ναῦς…ταχείας ἀργυρολόγους, 1070-1). That the empire had become a vehicle for extorting, rather than protecting, the allies became a common refrain in Knights, and the misappropriation of the city’s navy was viewed as the cause.158 As the chorus proclaims, the city’s leading demagogue “will be the greatest of the Greeks, and [he] alone will prevail in the city and be leader of the allies, holding a trident, with which, rattling it and stirring up trouble, [he] will earn much money” (838-40).159 The trident, an attribute of

Poseidon and so a symbol of the navy, had come to be viewed as an instrument of harassment and extortion. What had been conceived of as an armada for the protection of the city, the defense of the allies, and the pursuit of the Persians had become an instrument of expansionism and domination.

At no point in Knights is this tension more clearly expressed than in the final parabasis of the chorus. While the sausage-seller is effecting the transformation of

Demos off-stage, the knights recount a tale of triremes, who have “gathered together for a debate” (ξυνελθεῖν τὰς τριήρεις εἰς λόγον, 1300) in the harbor. The triremes are lamenting the state of affairs in the city (ταῦτ’…τἀν τῇ πόλει, 1301), and are particularly upset that another of the city’s demagogues wants to send a hundred ships to

Carthage. Appalled by the distances to which they are being sent, the triremes exclaim,

“if this is the resolution of the Athenians, then it seems better to [us], having sailed up

158 For the empire as a means of extortion, see also Eq. 429-41, 801-9. 159 …µέγιστος Ἑλλήνων ἔσει, καὶ µόνος καθέξεις/ τἀν τῇ πόλει, τῶν ξυµµάχων τ’ ἄρξεις ἔχων τρίαιναν,/ ᾗ πολλὰ χρήµατ’ ἐργάσει σείων τε καὶ ταράττων (Eq. 838-40). 147 there, to sit in the Theseion or among the revered goddesses” (1311-2).160 As Carl

Anderson has noted, this episode “underscores the perils that unrestrained imperialism

[presented] to Athens’ future.”161 As with the entirety of Knights, this episode is not critical of the navy, but the extent to which it was being used. The triremes do not complain of Athenian control of the Aegean, and as W. G. Forrest has rather colorfully concluded, this is not surprising, “for no one in Athens with the possible exception of a few cranks ever wanted to get rid of the empire.”162 Rather, the episode highlights a growing uneasiness with “the reckless imperialism [that threatened] Athens’ social fabric.”163 The incredible potential represented by Aeschylus in his Persians had given way to a mounting anxiety by the time Aristophanes wrote his Knights. The navy is still presented in remarkably positive terms, yet a tension existed between the strategic and economic importance of the fleet and the expansionist and authoritarian ends to which it was being used. This same tension is reflected in Thucydides’ Histories, and while

Aristophanes may hold out hope that Demos can be restored to the glory and idealism of his youth, Thucydides presents a city that has ignored the warnings of Aeschylus and

“cast away [its] great happiness” (Pers. 826).164

160 ἢν δ’ ἀρέσκῃ ταῦτ’ Ἀθηναίοις, καθῆσθαί µοι δοκῶ/ εἰς τὸ Θησεῖον πλεούσας ἢ ’πὶ τῶν Σεµνῶν θεῶν (Eq. 1311-2). 161 Anderson 2003, 5. 162 Forrest 1975, 22-3. For a similar impression, see Ste Croix 1996, 45. 163 Anderson 2003, 1-2. 164 The relationship between Aristophanes and Thucydides has long been recognized. See, for example, Gomme 1996, 41; Scholtz 2007, 63-5; Boegehold 1982, 147-8; Hesk 1999, 230; Rusten 2006, 548-54. As Rusten (2006, 547) contends, “There are…several ways in which Old comedy and Thucydides can obviously illuminate each other: for certain individuals, certain events, political institutions, and periods of the war, the evidence of Thucydides and that of Old Comedy provide interesting complementarities.” 148 Part 4.3: “Those Who are the Stronger:” Thucydides, the Melian Dialogue, and Naval Identity at the Close of the 5th-Century

Writing in the last quarter of the 5th century, Thucydides presents a detailed and complicated retelling of the years leading up to the Peloponnesian War as well as the first twenty years of the conflict.165 Rather than concentrating simply on the military engagements of the war, the historian focuses considerable attention on the political and social implications of the conflict between Athens and Sparta. As a contemporary of

Kleon, Perikles, and Alkibiades and an active participant in the war, Thucydides was uniquely situated to examine the civil and military affairs of not only Athens, but Sparta as well.166 Exiled after his failure to prevent the Spartan capture of Amphipolis in 424/3, the author spent considerable time among the Peloponnesians, and “having been among the affairs of both sides, and not least those of the Peloponnesians on account of [his] exile, [he], being at leisure, understood these things all the better” (5.26.5-6).167 Despite the fact that Thucydides’ account of the Peloponnesian War ends rather abruptly in 411, it is clear from his text that he lived through and experienced the eventual defeat of the

Athenians in 404.168 He remembered (µέµνηµαι) events from the beginning of the

165 It is uncertain exactly when Thucydides was born or when the author died. Very few biographical details about the author exist outside of his text, and internal references give only a vague idea of the author’s life. Regardless of the exact dates of his life, however, it is clear that he was of military age during the war, and the last datable references preserved in his text are likely from the 390’s (2.100.1-2; 6.3.2-3; 8.84.5). For an overview of the author’s life, see Cawkwell 1998, 1-2; Hanson 1996, ix-xiii; Hornblower 1987, 1-4. For the possible date of Thucydides’ death, see the debate between Pouilloux and Salviat (1983, 1985) and Cartledge (1984). 166 For the author’s own account of his methodology and his unique access to both Athenian and Spartan affairs, see Thuc. 5.26; 1.21-22. 167 …καὶ γενοµένῳ παρ’ ἀµφοτέροις τοῖς πράγµασι, καὶ οὐχ ἧσσον τοῖς Πελοποννησίων διὰ τὴν φυγήν, καθ’ ἡσυχίαν τι αὐτῶν µᾶλλον αἰσθέσθαι (Thuc. 5.26.5-6). 168 Thuc. 2.65.10-3; 5.26.5; 1.22.1-3. That Thucydides’ account of the Peloponnesian War does not extend to the close of the conflict, despite his clear familiarity with the events of 404, has been the source of 149 conflict until the end (5.26.4)169 and maintains that “[he] lived through the whole of [the war], both being at the age to understand it and devoting his attention to it” (5.25.5).170

Such hindsight allowed the historian to write about the war “accurately” (ἀκριβές,

5.25.5), and his involvement with both the Athenians and the Peloponnesians granted him an unparalleled familiarity with both camps.

Such a unique knowledge of the events about which he was writing has unsurprisingly led many scholars to theorize about Thucydides’ own views of the politics and personalities of the late 5th century.171 Much as with Aristophanes, however,

considerable scholarly debate. Franz Ullrich (1846) long ago suggested that Thucydides’ history was actually incomplete, suggesting that books 1-4.51 and 5.84-8.1 were complete, while the rest of the text was merely a draft. The lack of speeches and the inclusion of seemingly unedited documents in the intermediary and closing portions of the text were seen as an indication of the incompleteness of the work. For a summary of these seemingly “disjointed” passages in Thucydides, see Gomme, Andrewes, and Dover 1981, 361-83. Ullrich’s “separatist” theory was most notably forwarded by Schwartz (1919, 1-242), who devoted the first half of his Das Geschichtswerk des Thukydides to the question. Schwartz concluded that Thucydides’ work was originally intended to end with the Peace of Nikias in 421, when the war was presumed to be over. With the outset of renewed hostilities, however, Schwarz argues that Thucydides had to reconsider and add to his existing text, accounting for the seemingly disjointed organization noted by Ullrich. In more recent scholarship, however, Ullrich’s conclusions have been largely discarded, and a more “unitarian” theory put forward. Patzer (1937), one of the earliest objectors to Schwartz and Ullrich, for example, argued that Thucydides repeatedly and consistently makes references to events that occurred after 412 throughout his book, and so he concludes that the history was simply a product of the late 5th century, rather than a two-stage composition. Such a “unitarian” view of the text has been almost universally accepted, and for the sake of this dissertation, I will also assume that the work was composed as a unified work over the course of last quarter of the 5th century. See also Meyer 1955, 93-9; Finley 1967, 118-69. Despite the debate, though, I also ascribe to Connor’s (1984, 11) assertion that “it has become clear that Thucydides’ work is not static or homogenous, either in thought or style. It exploits the potential of the written medium for variation and differentiation.” For a more complete overview of the “separatist” and “unitarian” approaches to Thucydides, see Rusten 2009, 3-4; Connor 1984, 10-2; Hanson 1996, xiii- xiv; Hornblower 2008, 1-4. 169 …αἰεὶ γὰρ ἔγωγε µέµνηµαι, καὶ ἀρχοµένου τοῦ πολέµου καὶ µέχρι οὗ ἐτελεύτησε (Thuc. 5.26.4). 170 …ἐπεβίων δὲ διὰ παντὸς αὐτοῦ αἰσθανόµενός τε τῇ ἡλικίᾳ καὶ προσέχων τὴν γνώµην (Thucydides 5.25.5). 171 This problem is well illustrated by Cawkwell (1997, 4-5), who reasonably asserts that “Thucydides was a most elusive person who says almost nothing directly of his opinions,” but then confidently claims that these very opinions can be “teased out of his text.” Such attempts to tease the man out of the text perhaps reached its most extreme with Bowersock’s (1965, 136) attempt to reconstruct not merely Thucydides’ opinions, but even the “personality of the man.” This is not to suggest that Thucydides was completely objective or that he hesitated to insert his own moral leanings (contra the belief of so-called “realist” scholars in Thucydides); rather, this suggests simply that the text cannot be used to draw meaningful 150 Thucydides’ history does not present a monolithic and unified political message, but problematizes and questions the established institutions and prominent individuals of his own time. As Robert Connor has argued, Thucydides’ history “is prepared, at least from time to time, to exploit uncertainties or inconsistencies in the attitudes of its readers, explore the ambiguities and limits of values, and challenge, perhaps even subvert, expectations and apparent certainties.”172 Thucydides had seen Athens’ ascent to power and its dramatic fall from grace, had watched the Parthenon rise and the Long Walls topple. He wrote during a time of disquiet, conflict, and turmoil, in which political and military uncertainty overshadowed public optimism and confidence. The same anxiety and tension seen in Aristophanes is even more pronounced in Thucydides, and the historian presents an even greater uneasiness with the promise of empire and the danger of unchecked expansionism.173 The position of the navy in his work, then, becomes even more tenuous than in Knights. As with Aristophanes, the fleet is seen as an instrument of prosperity and good for the city, yet Thucydides writes with the burden of hindsight.174

Salamis had been “the origin of Athenian greatness,” but the very ships, which drove that greatness, had become the vehicle of the city’s demise.175 In short, the Athenians had fallen prey to the same pride and ambition as the Persians, and they had become the very thing against which Aeschylus had warned.

conclusions of Thucydides’ personal opinions and beliefs. See Hornblower 1987, 72. For an overview of these opposing views, see Lebow 2001, 547-9; Connor 1984, 4-9. 172 Connor 1984, 15. Further emphasizing the work’s complexity, Connor continues, “the work leads the sympathetic reader—ancient or modern—far beyond the views and values it seems initially to utilize and affirm.” 173 Euben 1997, 84; 1986, 374. 174 Gribble 1998, 53 175 Euben 1997, 68. 151 In few places in Thucydides’ history is this inversion more apparent than in the dialogue between the Athenians and the Melians at the close of Book 5. It is clear from early in the history that speeches held a unique position in Thucydides’ work – they were neither entirely fictional nor entirely historical.176 As Thucydides writes, “it was difficult both for [him] to remember the very exactness of those speeches, which [he himself] had heard, and for those informing [him] about speeches given at another location”

(1.22.1).177 Because of this, Thucydides admits that “[the speeches would]…be related as it seemed to [him] each individual would have said what was most appropriate about the circumstances occurring at that time, [to him] maintaining as closely as possible the general scope of those things which were actually said” (1.22.1-2).178 Because

Thucydides asserts that he did not record his speeches as they were spoken, but rather as they were likely to have been spoken, scholars have often questioned the accuracy, or rather historicity, of these speeches.179 Yet to focus too heavily on the accuracy of these

176 Adcock (1963, 27-9) nicely summarizes this possibility, but is seemingly troubled by the possibility of authorial insertion or imagination. See also Macleod 1974, 385-6; Hornblower 1987, 52-5. 177 …χαλεπὸν τὴν ἀκρίβειαν αὐτὴν τῶν λεχθέντων διαµνηµονεῦσαι ἦν ἐµοί τε ὧν αὐτὸς ἤκουσα καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοθέν ποθεν ἐµοὶ ἀπαγγέλλουσιν (Thuc. 1.22.1). 178 …ὡς δ’ ἂν ἐδόκουν ἑµοὶ ἕκαστοι περὶ τῶν αἰεὶ παρόντων τὰ δέοντα µάλιστ’ εἰπεῖν, ἐχοµένῳ ὅτι ἑγγύτατα τῆς ξυµπάσης γνώµης τῶν ἀληθῶς λεχθέωτων, οὕτως εἴρηται (Thuc. 1.22.1-2). I accept here Cameron’s (2003, 43) reading of ἐδόκουν ἑµοὶ ἕκαστοι as an impersonal with ἕκαστοι rendered as the subsequent subject of the infinitive clause. I likewise adopt his translation τὰ δέοντα as “what was appropriate” rather than the more awkward, though literal, “what was needed.” See also Gomme (1945, vol. 1, 140-1) and Kagan (1975, 72-4), who, reasonably, urge against the translation of τὰ δέοντα as “the ideal argument.” For the considerable scholarly debate surrounding the translation of this passage, see Pelling 2009, 176-82. 179 For discussions of the accuracy of Thucydides’ speeches, see Bosworth (2000, esp. 16), who argues that speeches, like Perikles’ funeral oration, “might of course be Thucydides’ creation, but it is more economical to accept that his art is taken from life, and that what he has given us is a potent distillation of the speech Pericles actually delivered.” See, in contrast, Flashar (1969, 44-56), who considers Perikle’s funeral oration to be, if not a complete fabrication, then at least the conflation of many speeches by Thucydides in order to illustrate the historian’s own opinions and themes. Gomme (1937, 156), long ago, was quick to point out the inherent problems with conclusions such as Flashar’s. As Gomme wrote, “those historians who have been most dogmatic in announcing that the speeches are inventions, have yet made full 152 speeches is to overlook their potential implications on Thucydides’ overall storytelling.180

The speeches are not merely vignettes inserted into Thucydides’ history, but rather invaluable scenes in Thucydides’ complicated narrative. As Christopher Pelling has argued, “speech and narrative setting [in Thucydides] inextricably combine into a wider, and much more suggestive, whole.”181 The Melian Dialogue, then, is not merely a record of what was said (or may have been said) shortly before the Athenian attack on the island, but rather a means of presenting the social and political tensions with which

Thucydides’ entire work is concerned.182 The episode highlights the danger of unbridled imperialism, questions the motives of the Athenian empire, and presents a striking inversion of the Salamis campaign – one in which the Athenians, much as Aeschylus had warned, assumed the role of the Persians.

Thucydides explains that the Melians, colonists of the Lakedaimonians, did not wish to submit to the Athenians (τῶν Ἀθηναίων οὐκ ἤθελον ὑπακούειν) and so remained neutral (ὄντες ἡσύχαζον) during the early years of the Peloponnesian War.

The Athenians, however, began to lay waste to the land (δῃοῦντες τὴν γῆν) of the

Melians and so compelled the islanders into open hostility (ἐς πόλεµον φανερὸν).183

Before the Athenians could do more serious damage to the island, however, the Melians use of them.” For a similar presentation of the various difficulties with interpreting speeches in Thucydides, see Hornblower 1987, 45-72; Pelling 2009, 176-9. For an overview of the continued debate surrounding the accuracy of Thucydides’ speeches, see Rusten 2009, 4-6. 180 Pelling 2009, 184-5. 181 Pelling 2009, 187. For further discussion of the interaction between speech and narrative, see Morrison 2006, 251-5. 182 See, for example, Kagan (1975, 78), who argues that Thucydides “selected what speeches he wished to report, and we may be sure that he did so with the purpose of portraying that truth about human affairs which was the main goal of his work.” 183 Thuc. 5.84.2-3. For the Athenian interest in Melos, see Gomme, Andrewes, and Dover 1970, 156-8; Seaman 1997, esp. 414-5; 153 sent delegates to speak with a group of Athenian representatives. Thucydides tells us that the Melians “did not lead these [representatives] before the masses” (5.84.3), but preferred to speak only as a small group.184 Convinced that the Melians were merely attempting to keep them from rallying the democratic support of the masses, the

Athenians nevertheless accepted this smaller meeting, content that the Melians would be able to respond “at once to anything said, which [did] not seem favorable [to them]”

(5.85).185 This more informal meeting is followed by a rapid succession of points and counter-points devoid of the niceties and eloquence of more formal speeches and rhetoric.186 Indeed, the Athenians seem disinterested in such formalities and encourage the Melians to forego the arguments typical of prolonged debate.187 They have little concern for the Melians’ assertion that they are Lakedaimonian colonists, and they insist that the Melians cannot claim that they have done no harm to the Athenians – such arguments are seen as mere boilerplate.188 Rather, the Athenians want to deal only with

“those ‘possibilities’ (τὰ δυνατὰ) derived from what each side truly means to accomplish, understanding, along with [them] who also know, that ‘justice’ (δίκαια) in human consideration is decided by equal compulsion (ἀπὸ τῆς ἴσης ἀνάγχης), while the

184 …οὓς οἱ Μήλιοι πρὸς µὲν τὸ πλῆθος οὐκ ἤγαγον, ἐν δὲ ταῖς ἀρχαῖς καὶ τοῖς ὀλίγοις λέγειν ἐκέλευον περὶ ὧν ἥκουσιν (Thuc. 5.84.3). For the unusual circumstances of this meeting and its implications for the rest of the speech, see Bosworth 2009, 315-6, with n. 12. See also Gomme, Andrewes, and Dover 1970, 159. 185 …ἀλλὰ πρὸς τὸ µὴ δοκοῦν ἐπιτηδείως λέγεσθαι εὐθὺς ὑπολαµβάνοντες κρίνετε (Thuc. 5.85). 186 On the rather unique form of the dialogue, see Macleod 1974, 387-9; Hudson-Williams 1950, 164-9. 187 Thuc. 5.89. For this seeming disinterest of the Athenians in the Melian Dialogue, see Gomme, Andrewes, and Dover 1970, 160-1. 188 Thuc. 5.89. 154 superior (οἱ προύχοντες) exact ‘possibilities’ (τὰ δυνατὰ), and the weak (οἱ ἀσθενεῖς) acquiesce to them” (5.89).189

The Athenians make it clear that they want to get directly to the point at hand, namely the inclusion of Melos in their empire.190 For the Athenians, the submission of the Melians is a foregone conclusion. The islanders can either submit willingly or by force, as it is “the superior” (οἱ προύχοντες), who impose their will upon “the weak” (οἱ

ἀσθενεῖς). Indeed, the Melians seem almost resigned to this, and view the dialogue as little more than a formality in anticipation of the inescapable siege that will follow.191

They accuse the Athenians of acting as judges (κριτὰς) in their own trial, and the islanders assume from that start that “the outcome of [the dialogue], in all likelihood, will bring war to [them], should [they] have the advantage of justice and so refuse to give in, or slavery, should [they] be persuaded [by the arguments of the Athenians].”192 The

Athenians do little to dispel this notion, and have no interest in presenting a speech

“under false pretense” (µετ’ ὀνοµάτων καλῶν, 5.89). They need not point out that they

“rightly rule” (δικαίως…ἄρχοµεν, 5.89) because of their efforts against the Persians, and

189 …τὰ δυνατὰ δ’ ἐξ ὧν ἑκάτεροι ἀληθῶς φρονοῦµεν διαπράσσεσθαι, ἐπισταµένους πρὸς εἰδότας ὅτι δίκαια µὲν ἑν τῷ ἀνθρωπείῳ λόγῳ ἀπὸ τῆς ἴσης ἀνάγκης κρίνεται, δυνατὰ δὲ οἱ προύχοντες πράσσαουσι καὶ οἱ ἀσθενεῖς ξυγχωροῦσιν (Thuc. 5.89). For the importance of this passage and the difficulties in its construction, see Gomme, Andrewes, and Dover 1970, 162-4. For the implications of this passage in considerations of Athenian imperialism, see Bosworth 2009, 311-14, with notes; Romilly 1963, 286-310 Meiggs 1972, 388. 190 Thuc. 5.84.2, 3.91.1-3. 191 Bosworth 2009, 314-7, with n. 11; Cogan 1981, 87-93; Andrewes 1960, 1-2. 192 …καὶ τὴν τελευτὴν ἐξ αὐτοῦ κατὰ τὸ εἰκὸς περιγενοµένοις µὲν τῷ διακίῳ καὶ δι’ αὐτὸ µὴ ενδοῦσι πόλεµον ἡµῖν φέρουσαν, πεισθεῖσι δὲ δουλείαν (Thuc. 5.86). Gomme, Andrewes, and Dover (1970, 160) argue that δουλείαν is better understood as “subjection” or “servitude,” which certainly retains the sense of the passage. The Melians have resigned themselves to either war with the Athenians or subjugation to them. However, Thucydides’ use of the word δουλεία seems to foreshadow the ultimate fate of the Melians, whose population was either killed (ἀπέκτειναν) or enslaved (ἠνδραπόδισαν) by the Athenians (5.116.4), and so I prefer “slavery” to “subjugation.” 155 they offer no real demonstration that they were “wronged” (ἀδικούµενοι, 5.89) by the

Melians. Rather, the Athenian argument is quite simple, “both divinity, it seems, and mankind, as has been apparent forever, on account of the compulsion of their nature, rule wherever they might hold power” (5.105.2).193 Put plainly, the Athenians contend that they have the right to rule simply because they have the power to rule.194

That the Athenians do not depend on their performance in the Persian Wars to legitimate their attack on Melos is striking. They had used just such a claim to defend their aggression against the Corinthians following the Kerkyrian revolt in 432 (1.73.2-

75.1), even though “it [was] tiresome for [them] to always bring it up” (1.73.2);195 and, during the Sicilian campaign, they likewise asserted that, on account of their service against the Persians, “[they] ruled, because they deserved to” (6.83.1).196 In their dealings with the Melians, however, the Athenians do not turn to their past accomplishments, but rely, rather, on the simple argument that “might-makes-right.”197

The Melians are warned to avoid war “against those who are by far the stronger (τοὺς

κρείσσονας)” (5.101),198 and the Athenians are quick to note that the Melians are “the

193 …ἡγούµεθα γὰρ τό τε θεῖον δόξῃ τὸ ἀνθρώπειόν τε σαφῶς διὰ παντὸς ὑπὸ φύσεως ἀναγκαίας, οὗ ἂν κρατῇ, ἄρχειν (Thuc. 5.105.2). 194 Bosworth 2009, 311-14, with notes; Romilly 1963, 286-310 Meiggs 1972, 388; Zagorin 2005, 103-6; Tritle 2010,133-5. 195 …εἰ καὶ δι’ ὄχλου µᾶλλον ἔσται αἰεὶ προβαλλοµένοις (Thuc. 1.73.2). For the conflict at Kerkyra and its aftermath, see Thucydides 1.24-88; Tritle 2010, 25-35. 196 …ἄξιοί τε ὄντες ἅµα ἄρχοµεν (Thuc. 6.83.1). For the events of the Sicilian campaign, see Thuc. 6.1- 7.78; Tritle 2010,144-64. 197 For the “right-is-might” argument of the Athenians, see Bosworth 2009, 311-14, with notes; Romilly 1963, 286-310 Meiggs 1972, 388; Zagorin 2005, 103-6; Tritle 2010,133-5. Ste. Croix (1972, 13-16) suggests that the Athenians do not actually argue that “right-is-might,” but even he admits that that Athenians were attempting “to convince the Melians that they [had] no hope of successful resistance and ought to surrender without fighting.” See also Andrewes 1960, 6. 198 …πρὸς τοὺς κρείσσονας πολλῷ µὴ ἀνθίστασιαθ (Thuc. 5.101). 156 weakest (ἀσθενέστεροι) of the islanders” (5.97).199 The argument is an ironic one, as the

Persians used the same reasoning en route to their defeat at Salamis.200 Indeed, throughout the dialogue with the Melians, the Athenians refute the very arguments they once used to justify their stand against the Persians.201 It is the Melians, not the

Athenians, who contend that “the affairs of war sometimes admit more impartial outcomes than relate to the difference in size of each side” (5.102),202 and the Athenians, who, surprisingly, respond that the weak (ἀσθενεῖς) should not, “when certain hopes desert them in their oppression, rely upon uncertain ones, such as prophecy and oracles, and whatever else of this sort which, along with hope, causes ruin” (5.103).203 In the end, the Melians choose to resist the Athenians, “trusting in the fortune from the gods, which

[had] kept [them] safe up to that time” (5.112.2).204 Despite their appeal to the gods, however, the Athenians besieged the Melians, eventually conquering the island, killing the men, and enslaving the women and children.205

The Athenian assertion that prophecy (µαντικήν) and oracles (χρησµοὺς) are merely an uncertain hope (τὰς αφανεῖς) against a superior army, and so cause only ruin

(λυµαίνεται), is striking; particularly given the Athenians’ own decision to abandon their

199 …ἄλλως τε καὶ νησιῶται ναυκρατόρων καὶ ἀσθενέστεροι ἑτέρων ὄντες εἰ µὴ περιγένοισθε (Thuc. 5.97). 200 Hdt. 7.9.9-11. For the Persian confidence in the size of their army, see also Aesch. Pers. 8-13, 60-4. 201 Connor 1984, 155-7. 202 …ἀλλ’ ἐπιστάµεθα τὰ τῶν πολέµων ἔστιν ὅτε κοινοτέρας τὰς τύχας λαµβάνοντα ἢ κατὰ τὸ διαφέρον ἑκατέρων πλῆθος (Thuc. 5.102). 203 …ἐπειδὰν πιεζοµένους αὐτοὺς ἐπιλίπωσιν αἱ φανεραὶ ἐλπίδες, ἐπὶ τὰς ἀφανεῖς καθίστανται µαντικήν τε καὶ χρησµοὺς καὶ ὅσα τοιαῦτα µετ’ ἐλπίδων λυµαίνεται (Thuc. 5.103). For the Athenians refusal to listen to the Melians’ appeals to the gods, see Furley 2006, 435. 204 …ἀλλὰ τῇ τε µέχρι τοῦδε σῳζούσῃ τύχῃ ἐκ τοῦ θείου αὐτὴν…πιστεύοντες (Thuc. 5.112.2). 205 Thuc. 5.116.2-4; Furley 2006, 435. 157 city to the Persians in 480. Instead of resisting the Persians by land, the Athenians, at the behest of the Delphic oracle, put their trust in the “wooden walls” of the navy, and so defeated the numerically superior force of Xerxes.206 It is surprising that the Athenians, only a few short generations after their victory at Salamis, would so dispassionately disregard the favor of the gods (τύχῃ ἐκ τοῦ θείου) as little more than superstition.207

Such a disengaged and pitiless treatment of the Melians has long been considered an attempt by Thucydides to highlight the ruthlessness of Athenian imperial ideology.208

Dionysios of Halikarnassos, for example, writing in the second half of the 1st century, noted that, “in this [dialogue], the most sensible of the Greeks [the Athenians] present the most shameful arguments and encompass them with the most unpleasant language”

(Thuc. 41.55-7).209 He contends that Thucydides deliberately puts these words into the mouths of the Athenian ambassadors so that they might be hated (µισήσειν) by all men.210

Yet the speech illustrates more than simply the extent of Athenian despotism and the perils of its continued expansionism.211 By relying solely on the size of their army and

206 Hdt. 7.138-45. It is particularly interesting in Herodotus that the historian prefaces the Athenian visit to Delphi by asserting that the Greeks were saved first by the gods and second by the Athenians. 207 Even in antiquity, such an assertion by the Athenians was deemed unexpected (Dion. Hal. Thuc. 40). 208 Grote (1850, 161), for example, said of Thucydides’ inclusion of the Melian Dialogue, “And Thucydides—having before him an act of great injustic and cruelty on the part of Athens, committed exactly at this point of time—has availed himself of the form of dialogue, for once in his history, to bring out the sentiments of a disdainful and confident conqueror in dramatic antithesis.” Grote’s assertion has been echoed by many subsequent scholars, and it is largely agreed that the Melian Dialogue is a commentary on Athenian imperialism, expansionism, and oppression. See also, Romilly 1963, 286-7; Zagorin 2005, 106-7; Connor 1984, 153-4; Price 2001, 202-4; Deininger 1939, 51-81; Bosworth 2009, 312- 4; Andrewes 1960, 5-6. For a more tempered treatment of the dialogue, see Ste. Croix 1972, 15-6. 209 …ἐν τούτῳ δὲ οἱ φρονιµώτατοι τῶν Ἑλλήνων αἴσχιστα µὲν ἐνθυµήµατα φέρουσιν, ἀνδεστάτῃ δ’ αὐτὰ περιλαµβάνουσι λέξει (Dion. Hal. Thuc. 41.55-7). 210 Dion. Hal. Thuc. 41.57-60. 211 It likewise should not be overlooked that this dialogue likely foreshadows the Athenian defeat at Sicily, which follows in the next book. See Connor 1984, 155; Andrewes 1960, 2-3. 158 disregarding the favor of the gods, the Athenians had abandoned, and even inverted, the position they had held on the eve of the battle at Salamis. Having once rallied to save their land (and the Greeks) from the superior force and unbounded hybris of Xerxes, the

Athenians represented in the Melian Dialogue “have come to resemble [their] ancient enemy, the Persians.”212 As Dionysios of Halikarnassos recognized, “It was fitting for barbarian kings to speak such things to the Greeks, but such things were not proper to be said by the Athenians to the Greeks, whom they had freed from the Medes” (Thuc. 39.1-

4).213 The dialogue, then, illustrates the extent to which empire and expansionism had warped the sense of right and justice, which Athens had advocated following the Persian

Wars. Whatever optimism Aeschylus may have expressed in this Persians had been replaced by a bitter cynicism in Thucydides, and the playwright’s poignant representation of the fall of Xerxes is dramatically mirrored in the Athenian’s eventual defeat at the hands of the Sicilians.214

The position of the navy in this dialogue, and throughout Thucydides’ history, then, is understandably tenuous. The navy was the mechanism through which Athens not

212 As Connor (1984, 156-7) argues, “Athens recreates Persian despotism, not only in its suppression of freedom and autonomy but in the arrogance of its language…and in the repudiation of their national identity as the opponents of despotism and of the enslavement of the Greeks we can begin to detect that the Athenians have cut themselves off from some of their sources of strength and come to resemble the ancient enemy, the Persians.” See also Tritle 2010, 134-5. 213 …βασιλεῦσι γὰρ βαρβάροις ταῦτα πρὸς Ἕλληνας ἥρµοττε λέγειν· Ἀθηναίοις δὲ πρὸς τοὺς Ἕλληνας, οὕς ἠλευθέρωσαν ἀπὸ τῶν Μήδων, οὐκ ἦν προσήκοντα εἰρῆσθαι (Dion. Hal. Thuc. 39.1-4). 214 Connor 1984, 155. The fall and destruction of Plataia (Thuc. 3.51-68) is an equally poignant presentation of this loss of post-Persian War idealism and optimism. Once the site of a panhellenic festival commemorating the combined Greek victory over the Persians, the destruction of the city at the hands of the Peloponnesians ironically negates and inverts the very significance of the site. The spirit of cooperation and potential felt at the close of the Persian Wars had been completely erased, and the Greeks now brought to completion what the Persians had once attempted. In this way, the sack of Plataia can be read as a physical representation, or manifestation, of the Melian Dialogue. 159 only achieved its empire, but also secured its defeat.215 In the Melian Dialogue alone, the

Athenians twice refer to themselves as “masters of the ship” (ναυκρατόρων, Thuc. 5.97,

109);216 yet, Thucydides neither argues, as Plato, that the navy is inherently bad for the city, nor does he criticize the low-class citizens who manned it, as does the Old-

Oligarch.217 Rather, Thucydides’ history presents the navy, much like Aristophanes, as a source of incredible benefit, but also terrible consequence. In the funeral oration, for example, Perikles declares that, “on account of the greatness of the city, everything is brought in from every land, and it happens for [the Athenians] that [they] enjoy the goods

[they] produce with no more enjoyment than those goods produced by other men” (Thuc.

2.38.2);218 and in his initial consideration of the rise of prosperous poleis in Greece,

Thucydides asserts that it was only with the development of powerful navies that “sea- born communication between cities became better…and men settled more securely near the sea, having acquired an abundance of wealth, and some even built a city-wall since they had acquired wealth of their own” (1.8.2-3).219 While the potential benefit of naval power is recognized by Thucydides, he repeatedly warns that such power is easily abused

215 At the suggestion of Perikles, the Athenians relied almost exclusively on their navy for both the defense of Attica and offensive campaigns (Thuc. 2.65.4-10). With the defeat of the fleet at Aigospotomai in 405, the Athenians were left defenseless against the Peloponnesian blockade and siege, and so were forced to surrender to the Spartans (Xen. Hell. 2.1.28-2.23). For the city’s military and economic reliance upon the fleet, see Taylor 2010, 82-187 and Kallet-Marx 1993, 109-206. 216 Interestingly, Thucydides is careful from the start to enumerate the number of hoplites, archers, and cavalrymen that were sent to Melos by the Athenians, in addition to their thirty ships (Thuc. 5.84.1-2). 217 Pl. Leg. 707a-c; Xen. [Ath. pol.] 1.1-5. 218 …ἐπεσέρχεται δὲ διὰ µέγεθος τῆς πόλεως ἐκ πάσης γῆς τὰ πάντα, καὶ ξυµβαίνει ἡµͅῖν µηδὲν οἰκειοτέρᾳ τῇ ἀπολαύσει τὰ αὐτοῦ ἀγαθὰ γιγνόµενα καρποῦσθαι ἢ καὶ τὰ τῶν ἄλλων ἀνθρώπων (Thuc. 2.38.2). 219 …πλωιµώτερα ἐγένετο παρ’ ἀλλήλους…καὶ οἱ παρὰ θάλασσαν ἄνθρωποι µᾶλλον ἤδη τὴν κτῆσιν τῶν χρηµάτων ποιούµενοι βεβαιότερον ᾤκουν, καί τινες καὶ τείχη περιεβάλλοντο ὡς πλουσιώτεροι ἑαυτῶν γιγνόµενοι (Thuc. 1.8.2-3). 160 by unbridled ambition.220 “It was those who devoted themselves to their own navies,” the historian suggests, “who acquired not the least advantage in the influx of wealth and the rule of others; for sailing out, they subjected the islands to their rule, whoever did not have sufficient enough land of their own” (1.15.1).221

Such a conflicting representation of the navy in Thucydides’ history reflects an uneasiness with, and even a cynicism toward, the strength of the Athenian fleet.222 The navy is seen as not only an important military and strategic advantage for the city, but also a source for economic wealth and prosperity. The substantial military, economic, and social benefit the fleet brought the city, however, was tempered by the violent, and at times pitiless, ends to which it was used to extend and enforce Athenian interests. The work acknowledges the strategic merits of the navy, yet criticizes the moral justification behind its increasing use in the maintenance and expansion of the city’s empire. As

Antony Andrewes argued, “[Thucydides’] problem [throughout his work] was…to justify his admiration for what was so justly hated.”223 Thucydides’ uneasy treatment of the navy stands in stark contrast to the pronounced optimism expressed by Aeschylus and highlights the changing treatment of the navy in the literary works of the 5th century.

220 For the uneasy relationship between naval power and empire in Thucydides, see Connor 1984, 24-7; Taylor 2010, 106-26; Andrewes 1960, 6. As Andrewes argued, “[Thucydides] both admired the Athenian empire, and thought it immoral according to those standards by which the doings of private citizens are called δίκαια or ἄδικα.” 221 …ἰσχὺν δὲ περιεποιήσαντο ὅµως οὐκ ἐλαχίστην οἱ προσσχόντες αὐτοῖς χρηµάτων τε προσόδῳ καὶ ἄλλων ἀρχῇ· ἐπιπλέοντες γὰρ τὰς νήσους κατεστέφοντο, καὶ µλιστα ὅσοι µὴ διαρκῆ εἶχον χώραν (Thuc. 1.15.1). 222 It is worth noting that the Athenians had already begun to rebuild their navy by the time Thucydides had finished writing his history, and so his treatment of the navy is as much a commentary on the Peloponnesian War as it is an appraisal of the newly restored democratic polis and its military strategies. For the reestablishment and roganization of the Athenian navy in the fourth century, see Amit 1965, 24-8, 138-40; Hale 2009, 249-68; Jordan 1972. 223 Andrewes 1960, 6. 161 While Aeschylus, Aristophanes, and Thucydides all recognized the potential benefit and positive position of the navy in the military and economic organization of the city, the fleet was presented in an increasingly cynical manner, as Athens used its naval power as a justification for continued expansion and empire. Despite such an increased uneasiness with the city’s navy, however, none of these authors are critical of the possession of a strong navy or of the men who manned the oars.

While Plato claimed that the navy made Athens “worse” (οὐ βελτίους),224 and the

“Old-Oligarch” criticized the rowers as “worthless” (πονηροὺς) and “poor” (οἱ

πένητες),225 it is not the case that this view was pervasive in Athens or that it remained consistent throughout the 5th century. Indeed, the works of Aeschylus, Aristophanes, and

Thucydides illustrate the prominent, and at times remarkably positive, position the fleet held in considerations of Athenian civic and military identity. And while the navy may never have supplanted the hoplites’ prominent and normative position in Athenian self- identity, it was not viewed merely as a locus for citizen “riff-raff and low-class laborers.”226 The representation of the navy in the literary sources of the fifth century was never so simple nor so monolithic. The role the fleet played in the cultural identity of the community was far from consistent in the hundred years that passed between the development of the navy under Themistokles and the writings of Plato. The remarkably positive and optimistic portrayal of the navy presented by Aeschylus in 472 gave way to an increasingly complex and cynical characterization by Aristophanes and Thucydides, who were writing in the midst of the Peloponnesian War. Such variant representations of

224 Pl. Leg. 707c. 225 Xen. [Ath. pol.] 1.1-2. 226 Neer 2002, 162-3. 162 the navy call into question Pritchard’s claim that changes in self-identity were “too difficult to achieve” and illustrate the complex, changing, and at times even conflicting, role the navy held in the definition of Athenian civic identity.227 In the concluding chapter that follows, I will further address this complexity by combining the artistic, material, and literary evidence that has been discussed in the previous chapters. I conclude that, when examined together within a chronological framework, these various sources present a new picture of the fleet that is far from monolithic and that calls into question the common scholarly conclusion that the navy was universally or consistently disdained by the Athenian community.

227 Pritchard 1998, 52; 1999, 246. 163 Chapter 5: Conclusion: “The Land of the Fine Triremes”

The position of the navy in Athenian civic-identity, which has been addressed in the previous chapters, is complicated and far from consistent. While it is true that writers of the 4th century and later often held a negative view of the navy, this dissertation has shown that this was not the case in the 5th century. As even Thucydides recognized, the passing of time could change opinions toward, or even leave false impressions of, the past.1 For this reason, a careful focus on the abundant literary and material sources of the

5th century provides new insight into the position of the fleet in Classical Athens. As Ian

Morris has stressed, the reading of primary texts alongside contemporary artifacts creates analogies that “are far stronger than when we rely on information from other times and places.”2 In the previous chapters, I have artificially isolated literary and material media to illustrate the differing, and even opposing, impressions these various sources can provide in considerations of the navy. While this division illustrates the limits and inconsistencies of what Eberhard Sauer has called a “factional division of research,”3 it does not fully address what the synthesis and integration of this material can tell us about the cultural reception and presentation of the Athenian navy over the course of the 5th century. When the literary, material, and artistic evidence of the fleet are examined together within specific chronological frameworks, such as the pentekontaetia and the

Peloponnesian Wars, however, a more nuanced impression of the fleet becomes apparent.

The picture that emerges is far from monolithic and calls into question the scholarly

1 Thuc. 1.10.2. 2 Morris 2000, 6. 3 Sauer 2004, 19. 164 supposition that the navy and its rowers remained marginal figures in the projection of

Athenian civic identity.

Scenes of ships and seafaring, including identifiably military representations such as those that are depicted on the Dipylon vases, appear as early as the 8th century in

Athenian art.4 By the 6th century, scenes of seamanship became more popular on sympotic, rather than funerary, vessels. Such depictions reinforced the Homeric notion of the “wine-dark sea” and reflected the symposiasts’ own considerations of themselves as sailors upon the waves.5 The relative frequency of naval iconography throughout the

Archaic period reflects a communal interest in the city’s bourgeoning naval capability and the advancement of maritime technology.6 With the development of the red-figure technique, however, scenes of seafaring virtually disappeared from Athenian vase painting. This dramatic shift in iconography is particularly striking because it coincides roughly with the Athenian development of their fleet, the predominantly Athenian naval victory at Salamis, and the subsequent establishment of Athenian naval hegemony in the

Aegean. That such an abrupt change in iconography occurred at this time has been linked to an attempt by the elite patrons of these vases to distance themselves from the navy and the low-class citizens, who manned the oars.7 Such a conclusion, however, overlooks the similar disappearance of other forms of imagery, such as pederasty and homoerotic courtship, which also roughly coincided with the development of the red-figure

4 Ahlberg 1971, 27-34, 68-70. 5 Slater 1976, 163; Davies 1978, 80-1; Lissarrague 1990, 116. 6 For the relationship between painted imagery and a community’s social, religious, moral, and mental values and attitudes, see Hölscher 1998, 176-83. For naval technology of the Archaic period, see Morrison, Coates, and Rankov 2000, 25-49. 7 Neer 2002, 162-3 165 technique.8 Likewise, this argument assumes that wealthy Athenians, early in the 5th century, actively attempted to distance themselves from the city’s naval accomplishments

– accomplishments with which they were integrally tied through their service as trierarchs.9

While ship iconography does indeed become rare in the vase painting of the 5th century, naval imagery does not. Scenes of Poseidon and Boreas become increasingly popular following the victories at Artemesion and Salamis, and Theseus, the quintessential Athenian hero, is repeatedly depicted as a son of Poseidon in the decades following the Persian Wars.10 Representations of this sort suggest that the navy remained a subject of considerable interest even following the massive expansion of the fleet under

Themistokles and the increased participation of the thetes in the Athenian military and political institutions of the early Classical period.11 The literary and material evidence from this period further suggests that the navy, particularly in the years after the Persian

Wars, was not only highly praised by the community, but also seen as a source of wealth and prosperity for the city. The erection of a trophy to commemorate the victory at

Salamis and the dedication of casualty lists, which included the names of the city’s sailors, served as visual reminders of the city’s developing naval identity.12 And

Aeschylus, whose Persians was written shortly after the defeat of Xerxes’ army, praises

8 Shapiro 200, 21. 9 For elite involvement in the trierarchy, see Lyttkens 1994, 462; 1997, 474-9; Gabrielsen 1994, 9-10; Ober 1989, 226-30; Davies 1981, 128-30. 10 Pollitt 1987, 11; Shapiro 1994, 121; 1992, 39; Neer 2002, 162; Neils 1987, 150. 11 For the link between painted iconography and contemporary socio-political themes and concerns, see Arafat and Morgan 1989, 330-4. 12 For this inscription, see Agora Museum I 303 a-b (formerly EM 6739, Agora I 333). 166 the achievements and accomplishments of the entire community in overwhelmingly naval terms. After all, it was the “blows of the sea” (πλαγαῖσι ποντίαισιν, Pers. 906) that brought sorrow to the Persians and prosperity to the Athenians.

The euphoria that followed the Persian Wars no doubt contributed to the positive and prominent position that the navy held in Athenian civic identity in the first half of the

5th century. The construction of the Long Walls and the ship-sheds in the decades following the Greek victory not only dramatically reinforced the city’s connection to the sea, but also redefined the physical space of the entire city. These monuments served as constant and visual reminders of the wealth and security that the navy provided.13 The

Long Walls and ship-sheds came to be so integrally tied to the city’s civic and military identity that, at the close of the Peloponnesian Wars, the Spartans enthusiastically tore them down as a sign of Athens’ defeat and as a symbol of the liberation of the Greeks.14

These monuments have largely been overlooked in scholarly considerations of the position of the navy in Classical Athens, but the tremendous output of material and resources required for their construction, as well as their considerable impact on the visual landscape of the city, underscore the Athenians’ strong connection to its fleet.

Rather than distancing itself from its association with the sea, these monuments illustrate that Athens fostered and displayed the naval identity through which its power and influence were secured. With the exception of the Periklean building program on the

Acropolis, few building projects in Athens matched the scale or magnitude of the Long

13 For the connection between monuments and civic identity, see Nelson and Olin 2003, 7; Nora 1996, 3. 14 Xen. Hell. 2.2.20-3. 167 Walls and the ship-sheds.15 Yet even on the Classical Acropolis, the defining emblem of democratic and imperial Athens, the city can be seen to have embraced and displayed its naval identity. Poseidon is prominently figured on the west pediment of the Parthenon, a cult to the god was established in the area of the Erechtheion, and every four years, during the Panathenaic Festival, the newly sewn peplos, which was dedicated to the city’s patron deity, Athena, was wheeled through the city on a wooden ship. Such public and visual representations of the navy were integrally linked to the social, military, and religious fabric of the polis and reaffirmed the city’s naval identity.

The public commemoration of the city’s fleet continued throughout the 5th century. Casualty lists were erected even in the 4th century, the Long Walls and ship- sheds were rebuilt after their destruction under the Thirty, and the Panathenaic ship was utilized well into the Roman period.16 Despite the continued public representation of the fleet, however, with the start of the Peloponnesian War, the navy came to occupy an increasingly uneasy position in the literary works of the last quarter of the 5th century.

Aeschylus, writing shortly after the battle at Salamis, portrayed the navy with an air of optimism and potential. However, the rise of Athenian expansionism in the decades that followed, as well as the city’s marked involvement in Aegean affairs, had led to a heightened cynicism surrounding the manner in which the navy was being utilized.

Aeschylus had written that man should be content, “lest [he], despising his present fortune, and having grown desirous of other things, cast away great happiness” (Pers.

15 For the monumentality of these buildings, see Conwell 2009, 398-400 and Lovén et al 2007, 62-5. 16 For the casualty lists, see Bradeen 1964 and 1969; for the various phases of the ship-sheds, see Lovén et al 2007; for the Panathenaic ship in the Roman period, see the description of the ship built by Herodes Atticus in Philostr. VS 2.550. 168 823-6).17 Yet by the time Aristophanes had written his Knights in 424, this cautious optimism had been replaced by an increased skepticism. Aristophanes does not present

Athens as the liberator of Ionia and the Islands, as Aeschylus had (Pers. 584-5), but as a

“tyrant” (Eq. 1114), “monarch” (Eq. 1330), and “king” (Eq. 1333), extorting funds from its allies and harassing even neutral poleis.

Despite such cynicism, however, Aristophanes does not directly criticize the navy or its rowers. Rather, he calls into question the ends to which the navy was being used by the politicians and demagogues of his own time. Such an outlook stands in stark contrast to the roughly contemporary writings of the “Old-Oligarch,” who marks the rowers as merely “poor” and “worthless,” possessing “the greatest ignorance,” “indiscipline,” and

“wickedness.”18 Despite such contradictions, however, scholars have often supported and reaffirmed the “Old-Oligarch’s” rather vitriolic sentiment, labeling the rowers as

“riff-raff” and so not worthy of, or interested in, public or private commemoration and have projected this view back onto the whole of the 5th century.19 The position of the fleet in late 5th-century Athens, however, was not so clearly defined. While the “Old-

Oligarch” presented a negative view of the navy, and particularly the rowers, the fleet still continued to be prominently commemorated in the public space of the city. In addition, other contemporary written works, such as Aristophanes’ Knights, present neither an unwaveringly positive view of the navy nor an uninhibitedly negative appraisal

17 …τοιαῦθ’ ὁρῶντες τῶνδε τἀπιτίµια/ µέµνησθ’ Ἀθηνῶν Ἑλλάδος τε, µηδέ τις/ ὑπερφρονήσας τὸν παρόντα δαίµονα/ ἄλλων ἐρασθεὶς ὄλβον ἐκχέηι µέγαν (Pers. 823-6). 18 Xen. [Ath. pol.] 1.1-5. 19 See for example Neer 2002, 162-3; Hanson 1996, 306-7. 169 of the rowers, but rather highlight the uneasy tension between both the benefits of naval power and the risks of unbridled expansionism.

That such stark contradictions could exist even between roughly contemporary sources calls attention to the limits of monolithic models of Athenian self-representation that rely heavily on a single medium or non-contemporary sources. Even following the

Peloponnesian defeat of Athens and the subsequent destruction of the ship-sheds and

Long Walls, the navy was not universally disparaged by the community. Plato, writing early in the 4th century, may have viewed the navy as an institution that made the city

“worse” (Leg. 707a-c), but he was by no means the only voice of 4th century Athens. In

Thucydides’ history, for example, which continued to be written well into the 390’s, the navy was criticized as a vehicle for imperialism and tyranny, but also praised as a source of wealth and prosperity for the community.20 And this was not the only indication that

Athens continued to maintain and even project its naval identity even into the 4th century.

During the first quarter of the 4th century, the Long Walls were repaired and the ship- sheds reconstructed at the city’s military harbors.21 The reestablishment of these buildings visually reaffirmed the city’s continued connection to the sea and its naval power. While Plato’s account of the navy undoubtedly reflected the opinion of a significant portion of the Athenian population, it is clear that the navy also maintained a positive and prominent position in the visual and literary productions of the period.22

20 For this opposition, see Thuc. 1.8.2-3, 2.38.2, 5.97-112. See also Connor 1984, 24-7; Taylor 2010, 106- 26; Andrewes 1960, 6. 21 For the reconstruction of the ship-sheds, see Lovén et al 2007; for the repair of the Long Walls, see Conwell 2009, 109-132. 22 For the understanding that contradictory perceptions were common in considerations of the navy, see van Wees 1995, 161. 170 Such inconsistencies and contradictions reflect the complicated position that the navy held in the 5th century Athenian imaginary. The city's relationship to its fleet not only changed over time, but it also varied according to medium, so that even contemporary images of the fleet might convey different messages about its status or role.

In addition, the manner in which the navy was represented varied considerably within the artistic, literary, and material productions of the Classical period. While authors such as the “Old-Oligarch” and Plato presented overwhelmingly critical impressions of the oarsmen and the fleet, the navy nevertheless retained a remarkably positive position in the monuments and buildings of 5th-century Athens. Because of such complexities, the traditional view that the navy was scorned by the elites and disparaging of its own maritime identity, must be called into question. Such unilateral considerations of the fleet overlook the ever-changing reception of the navy in the numerous and various media through which the city promoted and criticized its naval identity. While a number of its detractors may have viewed the navy as merely a locus for “riff-raff and low-class laborers,” the navy was also viewed as an identifying and identifiable feature of the city.

One need only remember the words of the Athenian traveler Euelpides in Aristophanes’

Birds. When asked for the country from which he has traveled, he answers not that he is from the city of Athens, but simply replies that he has come “from the land of the fine triremes.”23

23 …ὄθεν αἱ τριήρεις αἱ καλαί (Ar. Av. 108). 171 Appendix:

Figure 1. Monumental Attic Geometric funerary amphora of the Dipylon group depicting a scene of prothesis, c. 750 BCE (Athens, National Archaeological Museum, NM 804).

172

Figure 2. Prothesis scene from a monumental Attic Geometric funerary amphora of the Dipylon group, c. 750 BCE (Athens, National Archaeological Museum, NM 804).

Figure 3. Fragment of an Attic Geometric krater depicting a scene of battle around a warship, c. 760-735 BCE (Paris, Musée du Louvre, A 527).

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Figure 4. Attic Geometric krater depicting a scene of battle around a beached warship, c. 735-710 BCE (New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, 34.11.2).

Figure 5. Detail of an Attic Geometric krater depicting a scene of battle around a beached warship, c. 735-710 BCE (New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, 34.11.2).

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Figure 6. Attic Geometric bowl portraying an oared vessel, perhaps in a scene of departure, c. 735-710 BCE (London, British Museum, XCII B 65).

Figure 7. Attic Geometric cup with the image of an oared ship, c. 850-800 BCE (Morrison and Williams 1968, Geom. 26).

Figure 8. Attic Geometric skyphos with a scene of battle around a beached warship, c. 850-800 BCE (Eleusis, Eleusis Archeological Museum, 741). 175

Figure 9. Fragments of two Attic Geometric votive plaques from the Acropolis, each preserving the prow of a ship, 8th-7th cent. BCE. (Boardman 1954, no. 1-2).

Figure 10. Fragment of an early proto-Attic vessel depicting a ship with at least to banks of oars, c. 700-650 BCE (Athens, National Archaeological Museum, NM fragment).

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Figure 11. Early Attic black-figure hydria from Eretria with the image of a ship with a boar’s head ram on its shoulder, c. 600-550 BCE (Paris, Musée du Louvre, 735).

Figure 12. Fragment of an Attic Geometric vase highlighting each individual member of the crew, including the rowers and helmsman, c. 710-700 BCE (Athens, Agora Museum, 26817).

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Figure 13. Fragment of an early proto-Attic plaque from Cape Sounion with carefully delineated hoplite crewmembers manning the oars, c. 700-650 BCE (Athens, National Archaeological Museum, NM fragment).

Figure 14. Attic black-figure cup depicting two ships with carefully rendered masts, riggings, and sails, c. 530-480 BCE (Paris, Musée du Louvre, F. 123).

178

Figure 15. Attic black-figure cup depicting two ships with carefully rendered masts, riggings, and sails, c. 530-480 BCE (Paris, Musée du Louvre, F. 123).

Figure 16. Attic black-figure dinos by Exekias highlighting the repetitiveness of the ships’ oars and the size of the vessels, c. 550-530 BCE (Rome, Villa Giulia Museum, 50599).

179

Figure 17. The Olympias trireme during its sea trials on the Aegean Sea.

Figure 18. Attic black-figure band cup by the Tleson Painter with a miniaturistic depiction of a cockfight, c. 550-520 BCE (Munich, Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptotek, SL462).

180

Figure 19. Attic black-figure band cup with a miniaturastic depiction of numerous warriors perhaps in a scene of preparation or departure, c. 550-520 BCE (Dallas, Dallas Museum of Art, 1986.2).

Figure 20. Interior rim of an Attic black-figure dinos depicting a series of oared ships, c. 550-530 BCE (Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum, 3619). 181

Figure 21. Attic black-figure kylix depicting a merchant ship and a warship, c. 510 BCE (London, British Museum, B. 436).

Figure 22. Fragment of an Attic black-figure krater preserving a portion of a ship’s prow, oarsmen, sails, and rigging, c. 530-480 BCE (Copenhagen, National Museum, fragment). 182

Figure 23. Red-figure cup by the painter of London E2 with a series of ships around its rim, c. 490 BCE (London, British Museum, E22).

Figure 24. Attic black-figure dinos with a series of ships around its inner rim, c. 520-510 BCE (Malibu, J. Paul Getty Museum, 92.AE.88). 183

Figure 25. Votive plaque from the Temple of Apollo Zoster in Vouliagmene with a rough etching of a ship, c. 550-500 BCE (Basch, 1987, fig. 476).

Figure 26. Bilingual amphora with a red-figure scene by the Andokides, highlighting the complicated depiction of overlapping tree branches in the background, c. 525-510 BCE (Boston, Museum of Fine Arts, 99.538). 184

Figure 28. Stamnos by the Siren Painter, highlighting the artist’s ability to render ship’s rigging in the red-figure technique, c. 520-480 BCE (London, British Museum, E. 440).

185

186

Figure 30. Representation of the Argo from beneath the handle of an Attic red-figure volute krater depicting the death of Talos (fig. 27), c. 480-400 BCE (Ruvo, Museo Jatta, 1501).

187

Figure 32. Attic red-figure cup by the Briseis Painter representing Theseus’ journey to the underwater realm of Poseidon, c. 480 BCE (New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, 53.11.4).

Figure 33. Attic red-figure column krater by the Harrow painter depicting Theseus’ meeting with his father, Poseidon, c. 480-460 BCE (Cambridge, Sackler Museum, 1960.339). 188

Figure 35. Attic red-figure hydria with Boreas’ pursuit of the Athenian princess Oreithyia; Athena watches the scene from the right, c. 460-450 BCE (Basel, Antikenmuseum, BS 1906.296). 189

Figure 36. Attic red-figure hydria depicting Boreas’ capture of Oreithyia; the scene from the right, c. 460-450 BCE (Brunswick, Bowdoin College, 08.3).

190

Figure 37. Map of the island of Salamis, with the promontory of Kynosoura (Κυνόσουρα) projecting eastward into the Saronic Gulf and toward the mainland.

Figure 38. Cuttings on the Kynosoura peninsula that have been identified as the leveling course for the trophy erected to commemorate the battle at Salamis (Wallace 1969, fig. 8).

191

Figure 39. Cut limestone block associated with the trophy erected on the Kynosoura peninsula in commemoration of the battle at Salamis (Wallace 1969, fig. 10).

Figure 40. Cut limestone block associated with the trophy erected on the Kynosoura peninsula in commemoration of the battle at Salamis (Wallace 1969, fig. 11).

192

Figure 41. The reconstructed, Ionic trophy monument at Marathon (photograph taken by the author).

193

Figure 42. View of the island of Salamis from the Philopappos, with Piraeus in the foreground (photograph taken by the author).

Figure 43. Fragment of an inscribed monument base commemorating the Persian Wars (Athens, Agora Museum, I 303b, formerly Athens, Epigraphic Museum, EM 6739). 194

Figure 44. Fragment of an inscribed monument base commemorating the Persian Wars (Athens, Agora Museum, I 303a).

Figure 46. Drawing of a nearly complete block of the Persian War monument preserving the full width of the stone as well as the cuttings for numerous stelai (Matthaiou.1988, fig. 1).

196

Figure 48. Plan of the ship-sheds at Piraeus (Morrison, Coates, and Rankov 2000, fig. 9).

Figure 49. The Hephaisteion (as seen from the Acropolis), highlighting the buildings size and considerable visibility (photograph taken by the author). 197

Figure 50. Lykavettos, the Philopappos, and the Acropolis (as seen from Mounichia Harbor), highlighting the clear line of sight between the harbor and the city center (photograph taken by Martin Wells at the author’s request).

Figure 51. The Plan Ia Long Walls with the northern wall connecting the city center to Piraeus and the southern, “Phaleric Wall,” leading to the harbor at Phaleron (Conwell 2008, fig. 2). 198

Figure 53. Reconstructed plan of the late 4th century Long Walls highlighting the use of mud-brick walls atop a stone foundation (Conwell 2008, fig.4). 199

Figure 54. View of the Attic Plain, over which the northern Long Walls would have run (as seen from the Philopappos); the hill of Piraeus is visible in the distance (photograph taken by the author).

Figure 56. The southern corner of the east pediment of the Parthenon as drawn by the 17th century Flemish artist Jacques Carrey (Palagia 1993, fig. 1).

Figure 57. The northern corner of the east pediment of the Parthenon as drawn by the 17th century Flemish artist Jacques Carrey (Palagia 1993, fig. 2).

Figure 58. The southern corner of the west pediment of the Parthenon as drawn by the 17th century Flemish artist Jacques Carrey (Palagia 1993, fig. 4). 201

Figure 59. The northern corner of the west pediment of the Parthenon as drawn by the 17th century Flemish artist Jacques Carrey (Palagia 1993, fig. 3).

Figure 60. The Venetian bombardment of the Parthenon (September 26, 1687) as drawn by G. M. Verneda in 1707 (Hurwit 1999).

202

Figure 61. The central figures of Poseidon and Athena from the west pediment of the Parthenon as drawn by the 17th century Flemish artist Jacques Carrey (Palagia 1993, fig. 3).

203

Figure 62. Attic hydria depicting the contest between Poseidon and Athena, c. 400 BCE (St. Petersburg, State Hermitage Museum, 6a).

204

Figure 63. Attic hydria depicting the contest between Poseidon and Athena, c. 400 BCE (Pella, Pella Museum, 80.514).

205

Figure 64. Detail of an Attic hydria depicting the contest between Poseidon and Athena, c. 400 BCE (Pella, Pella Museum, 80.514).

206

Figure 68. Plan of the civic center of Athens indicating the conjectured position of the Theseion (N) in the southeast corner of the Agora (Travlos 1971, fig. 379).

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239 Biography:

C. Jacob Butera was born on May 5, 1981 in Dayton, Ohio. He received his bachelor’s degree in 2003 from Miami University of Ohio with majors in Classical

Studies and Ancient Greek and a thematic sequence in the Italian Renaissance. Since the

Fall of 2003, Jacob has been a PhD candidate in the Department of Classical Studies at

Duke University. While at Duke, he was the recipient of the Chester P. Middlesworth

Award from the Duke University Rare Book, Manuscript, and Special Collections

Library, the James Rignall Wheeler Fellowship and the Edward Capps Advanced

Fellowshio, both granted by the American School of Classical Studies at Athens, and a

Summer Research Fellowship for Graduate Students in Humanities and Social Science

Programs and a Pre-Dissertation Travel Research Award from Duke University. While a graduate student at Duke, Jacob submitted an article, co-written with Dr. David Moffitt, to ZPE. The article, entitled “P.Duk.inv. 727: ‘Proselytes’ in Egypt,” is currently under review.

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